California Burrito
(Destiny & Choice)
It was five-twenty in the afternoon. A cool breeze drifted in from the Pacific Ocean, gently sweeping through the streets of San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter. A few seagulls perched on a lamppost engaged in a futile quarrel over a piece of bread. Farther down the street, a short line had formed in front of an old taco shop. The smell of charcoal-grilled meat mingled with the scent of ripe avocado, coriander, and freshly made tortillas.
After hours of strolling along the harbor and exploring the historic ships at the Maritime Museum, Hafez and Rumi stopped in front of the small restaurant.
“Isn’t it strange? A city with a half-American and half-Mexican soul,” Rumi said.
Hafez smiled. “Just like human beings, nobody belongs to only one place.”
Inside the shop, a young woman stood behind the counter taking orders. A Mexican man with a white mustache chopped sizzling meat on the hot grill without ever looking up.
“Hi there! What can I get for you?” the young woman asked.
“Two California burritos,” Rumi replied.
Hafez chuckled softly. “And if possible, please wrap a little patience inside them.”
The young woman didn’t get his joke, but she politely smiled.
A few minutes later, two enormous burritos arrived on a metal tray. Inside the warm tortilla were slices of carne asada, crispy french fries, melted cheese, fresh guacamole, and a touch of sour cream.
Hafez stared at it silently for a moment. “Destiny resembles this burrito more than any other food.”
Rumi raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s wrapped?”
“No,” Hafez replied, “because until you get the first bite, you never really know what’s inside.”
Rumi picked up a plastic knife and sliced the burrito in half. Its colorful layers became visible.
“I always begin with the meat,” he said. “It’s the backbone of the dish. If the meat isn’t good, everything else is simply trying too hard.”
Hafez nodded. “The meat is destiny. It was already on the fire before we arrived. We never got a chance to choose it.” Then he pulled out one of the french fries. “But these… these are choices. Each one was getting fried separately, though in the same pot. If they don’t burn, together they find their meaning.”
“I think exactly the opposite,” Rumi replied.
Hafez laughed knowingly. “You’ve always been that way.”
Rumi scooped up a little guacamole with his fingertip. “I believe destiny is the tortilla,” he said. ”It holds everything together. But what you choose to put inside it; that is entirely yours to choose. One wants more meat, another prefers less cheese, someone else skips the peppers altogether.”
Hafez fell silent for a few seconds before asking thoughtfully, “Then what if someone drops the burrito on the ground?”
Rumi laughed. “That’s pure carelessness, not destiny.”
Both of them laughed. The Mexican cook behind the grill had no idea what they were laughing about, but their laughter was contagious. Smiling, he waved at them from across the room.
At that very moment, a ten-year-old boy wearing a San Jose Giants jersey picked up a tray carrying several soft drinks and started walking toward a table. Suddenly, he lost his balance; the glasses crashed onto the floor, and soda splashed everywhere. The boy froze.
Without frowning or showing the slightest irritation, the Mexican cook picked up a towel, bent down, and said gently, “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get you more.”
“You see?” Hafez whispered.
“What?” asked Rumi.
“The very thing we’ve been looking for—destiny,” Hafez replied. “Destiny was the glasses falling; choice was bending down to clean them up.”
Rumi turned his gaze toward the street. The sun was slowly disappearing beyond the Pacific, its orange glow softly settling on the windows of nearby buildings.
“One can change their path through love and awareness. Even if the fire beneath the meat was lit long before we arrived, we can still decide how long it remains on the flame,” Rumi said.
Hafez finished his last bite and wiped his mouth. “I’ve always believed that some things lie beyond our control: where we’re born, whom we lose, or where we might find them again. But as long as this bite is still in our mouths, we can choose to taste it. And that’s no small thing.”
The ocean breeze returned.
Rumi placed the napkin packet on the table. “Then write down the recipe, my friend.”
Hafez smiled. “First, grill the meat over high heat, because destiny is always hot and ready before we arrive. Fry the potatoes separately, because choice is the result of many attempts. Let the cheese melt slowly, binding everything together, the way kindness fills the spaces between people. Add the guacamole at the very end; hope must remain fresh, or it loses its color. Finally, wrap everything inside the tortilla, because life never serves its ingredients separately.”
Rumi smiled. “So, what’s the conclusion?”
Hafez looked at the last piece of burrito and answered, “Destiny is not a meal prepared entirely for us. It’s a meal whose ingredients have been partly prepared by others, while the rest of the cooking has been entrusted to our own hands.”
The sun had completely disappeared beyond the Pacific. The two seasoned chefs, with nowhere they needed to hurry, rose from their table and walked slowly along the shoreline. It seemed as though their journey had only just begun—with the final bite still waiting.
