This morning. Wednesday. Buckle up.
I know it sounds crazy, BUT IT REALLY HAPPENED!!!!!
If you thought the Aldi Shrimp Loupe Saga was peak wrist-based awkwardness, allow me to present… :“The Burrito Booth Encounter.”
I Swear on my 904L-polished soul, this happened this morning exactly as recounted.
So I wake up, already running on fumes. Inbox overflowing, the dogs pacing like he owes someone money..... and my coffee tastes like betrayal. I decide: I need salt, crunch, and maybe some kind of melted cheese glue to hold the day together.
A burrito.
A bad decision wrapped in foil.
I drive to the local mall, the one that time forgot—half the stores are empty, the escalators sound like haunted saxophones. My destination? El Fuego Wrap GmbH & Co. KG...
It’s not so much a restaurant as it is a neon-lit cry for help. There’s one employee, Raul, and I swear he knows me by my order and my existantial energy at this point.
I throw on my usual casual fit: hoodie, sneakers, and my Nnoob V11 Submariner. This thing’s seen it all—Zoom calls, gas station sushi, two failed first dates..... It’s not a flex; it’s a wrist-mounted support group.
I get my Crunchy Burrito with extra cheese (don’t judge me—it holds the fillings together), and I settle into one of those plastic booths that looks like it was designed for posture correction by punishment.
I’m mid-bite—like deep into the burrito, cheese string hanging like a loose power line—when I feel it.
Stared at.
🫣Not just glanced at. Full eye-contact-via-peripheral.
I look over.One booth down, diagonally—there’s this female patron. Mid to Late 30s, tall, sharp cheekbones, loose flannel revealing some major cleavage, blood-red nails tapping a soda lid. Effortless..... She looks like a retired lingerie model who runs a micro-brewery and knows how to repair a 1960s Stang's carburator or alternator . The kind of person you’re lowkey intimidated by, even while she’s unwrapping a napkin.
She glances at my wrist and arches a brow.
“You wearin' that one often?”
I wipe cheese of my lip. “Uh… yeah. Pretty often.”
She smirks. “Noob V11?”
“…Yeah.”
She nods, approvingly.
“Sel fit’s tight. Good call.”
Now I’m fully in it. I’m in the food court version of a secret handshake.
She pulls back her sleeve. Reveals a spotless ARF SD43.
Thing looks like it was just unboxed. The clasp clicks like a villain snapping her fingers before delivering a monologue.“I had your exact build once,” she says. “Sold it. Regretted it. There’s something about the bezel action on those earlier Noobs. You know the click?”
I nod solemnly. “Yeah… I know the click.”
We talk for ten solid minutes. QC tips. Factory drama. I mention I’ve been eyeing VSF lately. She leans forwsrd, eyes gleaming just a little, and says, “It’s time.”
She starts describing lug width tolerances like she’s reciting poetry. At one point she actually says, “You don’t measure reps—you feel them.” I nearly choke on rice.
Then, just like that, she stands up. Smooth. wipes her hands. Picks up her tray.
Before leaving, she looks at me—calm, collected, almost cryptic—and says:
“By the way… check under the tray liner.”
Gone. No goodbye. No Instagram handle. Not even a mute wave... Just... gone.
I lift the tray liner.
A folded napkin.
Inside it?
A ceramic bezel insert. Matte black. No fingerprints. No note. No explanation. Just the watch part. Like it’s waiting to be installed on destiny.
But there’s more.
Taped to the napkin—barely visible unless you unfold it completely—is a small plastic keycard. No branding, just a QR code and the words:
“Next Drop: 4.26. Mall Garage - Level 2B.”
I scan the code.
It opens a Dropbox Folder. Inside: folders labeled “VSF Rollie Batch A,” “Tudor Franken Logs,” and—no joke—“Burrito Protocol v3.pdf.”
I look around. She’s nowhere. Not in line. Not at any booth. Just vanished, like a horological ghost in flannel.
I finish my burrito in silence. Not because I’m not hungry, but because I’m wondering: Did I just get invited to the horology version of the Freemasons?
Anyway. That’s how my Wednesday started.
With a burrito, a bezel, and what may or may not be the start of a secret moddng society.
I wonder what craziness the weekend holds, 'cause the horological-craze-filled week since last Friday has been WILD and INSANE so far!
