A Quest for the Best Burrito Ever

There are stories of people weeping when they see the Sistine Chapel for the first time. It’s called Stendhal Syndrome. People become faint, confused, tremble, and are simply overwhelmed by the sight of the great art of our world.

I always thought those people were overly dramatic—and I say that as someone who faints when mildly inconvenienced. I know all about being overly dramatic. That all changed after I experienced the pinnacle of human creation, the perfect synthesis of art and science: a burrito from Ferny’s Tacos.

There are many great qualities about life in Austria, but the country has not managed to wrap its mind around the burrito yet. Sure, there are Döner, every town has at least one bakery laden with bread rolls and pastries, and the Austrian kitchen really knows its way around a potato. I don’t mean to imply that Austria is lacking in good food options—it’s not. The technology to swaddle rice, beans and salsa in a tortilla is there, but not utilized for reasons I have yet to come to the bottom of. When I was working in the US in the summer of 2023 it was the perfect opportunity to rectify my accumulated burrito deficit and when I wasn’t looking for birds, I was on the hunt for the best burrito ever.

After a long run the day before and an exceptionally tough survey that morning, I was hungry. The kind of hunger that gnaws straight through your stomach and into your spine. The kind of hunger that makes you say horrible things to the people you love. 

The survey that morning had been a 6-hour battle up and down steep hillsides.  I was hot, tired, and covered in scrapes and cuts from the shrubs. The only thing that kept me upright was the knowledge that soon I would have my hands on a burrito. That imminent burrito was a shining beacon of hope, a reminder that even though this world may be messed up there is still some good in it, and that good is slathered in guac and wrapped in foil.

Fate is a fickle mistress. The town of Silt, Colorado, had two taco trucks on opposite street corners. I chose Ferny’s tacos, by virtue of it being slightly closer. Perhaps, in a parallel universe, I went to Taqueria Garcia instead. In that universe I might still be looking for the world’s best burrito, not knowing I had passed so close to it. I would have continued on in my quest, satiated in body but not in spirit.

The parking lot was busy and there was a line, always a good sign. I walked to the taco truck, drawn forward by the invisible hand of Fate that was about to grant my wish and curse me at the same time. Normally I try to eat vegetarian, but Ferny did not approve of meatless options. I chose the chicken burrito with all the toppings although I felt slightly guilty about it.

The best burrito comes at a cost, and in this case the cost was $7.95 and having to wait for Ferny to prepare my burrito. It was a bump in the road, but the best prizes are only reached after trials and tribulations. After five minutes that felt like centuries, my burrito was ready. I carried my precious burden to the nearest picnic table with the urgency and care of a doctor delivering an organ for transplant. I didn’t stop to admire it or to take pictures. I ripped the foil off and tore into it like a feral dog. Every bite was excellent, the perfect balance of fat, salt, and acid. Grease dripped down my chin as I poured salsa over the top for each new bite. Was it spicier than I could handle? Yes. Did I care? No.

As we say in Dutch, it tasted “Alsof er een engeltje over je tong piest” which translates to “as if an angel is pissing on your tongue.” It means it’s very good. The Dutch are not a culinarily gifted people.

On the rare occasions that I eat meat, I try to eat meat that has lived nearby and has had a good life. I’m pretty sure this chicken did not have a good life. It was probably raised in a shed with tens of thousands of other chickens and pumped full of antibiotics and growth hormones until it couldn’t stand up anymore and was slaughtered. And it was delicious. Perhaps this chicken knew that its meat would be shredded and cooked with onions and peppers, mixed with cheese, and then wrapped into a tortilla the size of a manhole cover with a healthy topping of Pico de Gallo and corn salsa to keep it company. It might have laid its head on the chopping block voluntarily with the knowledge that, in death, it would reach heights it never would in life.

At this point in my quest, I did not know that I would be reaching the end of my journey. When I had started, I was young and naïve. I searched for the best burrito ever without knowing what that truly meant. In my innocence I had never thought I would actually find it.  I never stopped to consider the emotional price I would have to pay for my discovery: that every burrito after would be a poor facsimile that turns to ash in my mouth.

I spent so much time trying to find it that I never considered what would happen to me once I did. What did Don Quixote do after he returned home from his quest and the madness released him from its grasp? (Spoiler alert) Dear reader, he died.

But when I walked up to the window of Ferny’s tacos in Silt, Colorado, I did not know any of this. All I could think about was the next burrito I would eat, not the burritos I would eat for the rest of my life. It was shortsighted and in some ways the decision still haunts me. On the one hand, I got to experience, just for a moment, pure nirvana. On the other hand, every burrito since has been a disappointment. How do you go back to a life of black and white once you have seen the world in color? Perhaps I would have been happier if I had never known that feeling. If I had never known the world was not just monochrome. I would have been content in my ignorance. Then I think back to the flavors that danced over my tongue and I decide that no, it was worth it. That even if I never reach that peak again, I can remember that once, I stood upon on the summit.