Dear La Cocina,
I'm torn. I love seeing how successful you've become, but today's wait for a burrito positively turned my legs to jelly. I've told countless coworkers about the "little Mexican place across the street from Chipotle," because your staff is sweet, the basket of fresh tortilla chips (eat-in only) is addictive, and the imported sodas come in glass bottles (and they're made with real sugar instead of HFCS).
But today I stood in the back of your un-airconditioned storefront, the fans whipping stray napkins around my legs and the stereo blaring club beats (perhaps you should name your place Disco Taco?) as you called numbers 84-93. Then you called 99, 98 and 96. My number was 94. Hello, customer service? I'm not expecting special treatment because it is hot and I am pregnant, but throwing my order to the bottom of the priority list is making me reconsider my love for you.
You're lucky that the burrito really hit the spot. Figuratively and literally, as I am now sporting an orange grease stain on my belly.
La Cocina
45 N. Wells St.
Chicago, IL
312-346-1638
