Enraged over Empanadas

Ay dios mio. Today's bus ride was hell. Not because it was slow. And not because I didn't get a seat. No. It was because of a single scent. A scent that taunted me all the way down Connecticut Avenue.

I recognized it instantly. Far too many nights in Adams Morgan had concluded with that scent. The 3 am stumble. The long line. The excitement of choosing among spinach and chorizo and Jamaican. And then the realization that no matter what you choose, you will walk home happy, reaching into that tiny bag of goodness. The steam escapes. The scent draws you in. Before you know it, you're home, you're full, and you're dreaming of a woman named Julia. I think you know the treat of which I speak. Oh yes. It's none other than... the glory of... the empanada.

Empanadas are the perfect food, or at least one of several perfect foods (I'd also suggest the meatball, soy milk, chocolate pudding and, of course, sushi). An empanada is just so tasty. And self-contained. It's beautiful.

Anyway, the scent crept down the aisle of the bus and directly into my nose. My head perked up, and I wondered, who's the asshole who brought the warm empanada on the bus? I mean, really. Did he not realize how torturous this was for all of us? Especially passengers who may have, hypothetically, been to a spin class at 6:30 in the morning and were really really hungry?

I'd like to make a motion. Under no circumstances should bus patrons be permitted to carry warm, aromatic, delicious food items on the bus. It's just not fair. If I ever find you, empanada man, let me tell you. All I know is, you better keep one eye on that empanada of yours.