A Lot Of Nerve

For sheer ballsiness, I’m not sure anyone or anything can hold a candle to the owners of assembly line burrito restaurants (I'm talking to you, Moe's). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge their general business model. In fact, the rapidly assembled burrito absolutely makes my list of positive cultural advances of the past 10 years.

No, my quarrel is with the travesty that occurs when you reach the register. Fresh off a five minute session of guiding your lunch from station to station, intently steering your burrito clear of cilantro, sour cream, or some other unwanted accoutrement, you arrive at what ought to be the easiest part of the transaction. Yet rather than mentally preparing for the upcoming elbow throwing session at the salsa station, you must first deal with the signing of the receipt- a receipt with a tip line brazenly plastered on it. So the tip is for what exactly? Not sneaking jalapenos onto my burrito when you saw me looking away? Approving my request for chicken rather than substituting tofu squares? I don't love the tip jar that sits by many a register these days, but at least you aren't forced to state your intention not to contribute before your meal is handed over.