I always ask for extra beans, because 1) I don't want rice and 2) the one spoon of beans they DO give me is resentfully skimpy. But the second portion of beans is even smaller, and hardly adds up to a full serving, and now the bean grinch is already shuttling my underbeaned burrito toward the meat section before making eye contact again. As the tension builds, I try to think of a polite way to point out the "all-you-can-bean" burrito still doesn't have enough beans without impugning her competence as a professional burrito maker, when her gimlet eyes level at me, pleading for me to stop the mafia-style bean shakedown. But the ship is already set sail, and my request for a hearty, reasonable portion of black beans fished out of Bayleaf Bay only runs aground for my dry, nervous vocal chords. "One more scoop of beans please?" becomes a cough torturing both my self-respect, the existential satisfaction of my fellow patrons and the burrito tech's desire to be l i t e r a l l y anywhere else. I resign myself to specifying steak, where the portion stakes are somehow even higher.