Chipotle Mexican Grill (CMG) Q3 2021 earnings beat

A customer carries a Chipotle Mexican Grill Inc. bag outside a restaurant in San Francisco, California, United States on Monday, July 20, 2020.

David Paul Morris | Bloomberg | Getty Images

Chipotle Mexican Grill on Thursday reported quarterly earnings that drove Wall Street estimates as menu price increases helped the chain absorb higher costs.

The company’s shares rose more than 1% in expanded trading.

Here’s what the company said, relative to Wall Street expectations, based on an analyst survey by Refinitiv:

  • Earnings per share: $ 7.02 adjusted versus $ 6.32 expected
  • Revenue: $ 1.95 billion versus an expected $ 1.94 billion

The company reported net income of $ 204.4 million, or $ 7.18 per share, for the third quarter, compared to $ 80.2 million or $ 2.82 per share a year earlier.

Beef and freight costs were higher, but menu price increases offset the effects of those increased spending. In June, the chain announced that menu prices would increase by about 4% to cover the cost of increasing restaurant workers’ wages to an average of $ 15 an hour.

Excluding tax breaks, restructuring charges, and other items, Chipotle earned $ 7.02 per share, beating the $ 6.32 per share analyst survey surveyed by Refinitiv had expected.

Net sales rose 21.9% to $ 1.95 billion, beating expectations of $ 1.94 billion. Sales in the same store rose 15.1%, beating StreetAccount’s estimate of 14%.

Digital sales rose 8.6% after more than tripling a year ago. The company’s loyalty program has gained 24.5 million members in two and a half years, helping Chipotle learn more about its customers and encourage more frequent visits.

“There’s no doubt that the loyalty program has moved from crawling to walking, and we still have plenty of room to grow,” said CEO Brian Niccol on the conference call.

At the end of the quarter, the chain Smoked breast introduced as a time-limited menu option. Due to the strong demand, the item’s availability will end a little earlier than originally planned in November. Under Niccol, who previously directed Yum Brands’ Taco Bell has accelerated the process of adding new menu items through a process it calls stage-gate testing. The chain has been strategic with new releases and many of them have limited time options to drive customer traffic to their restaurants and keep the menu from bloating.

The company opened 41 new restaurants in the quarter. Only five of these locations did not have a “Chipotlane”, a drive-through lane intended for the collection of digital orders. Executives said the company is still facing inflation in building materials, shortages in labor and equipment from subcontractors, and delivery delays from landlords.

Looking ahead to the fourth quarter, the company is forecasting low to mid double-digit revenue growth in the same business. Chipotle noted several uncertainties weighing on the business, such as inflation, workforce pressures, and Covid-19.

“Despite these challenges, we remain confident that we can increase the margins in the restaurant with increasing average quantities,” said CFO Jack Hartung.

Chipotle also announced that its board of directors has approved an additional $ 100 million in share buybacks, bringing its total approval to $ 209.8 million as of September 30th. The company repurchased $ 98.7 million in shares in the third quarter.

Read the full announcement of the results here.

Chipotle Mexican Grill (CMG) Q2 2021 earnings

A person wearing a protective mask and gloves leaves a Chipotle restaurant in San Francisco, California on April 19, 2021.

David Paul Morris | Bloomberg | Getty Images

Chipotle Mexican Grill on Tuesday reported quarterly revenue surpassing pre-pandemic levels as customers returned to restaurants.

The company also released a third quarter revenue forecast.

Shares rose nearly 5% in extended trading.

Here’s what the company said, relative to Wall Street expectations, based on an analyst survey by Refinitiv:

  • Earnings per share: $ 7.46 adjusted versus $ 6.52 expected
  • Revenue: $ 1.89 billion versus an expected $ 1.88 billion

Chipotle reported net income of $ 188 million, or $ 6.60 per share, for the second quarter, compared to $ 8.2 million, or 29 cents per share, last year. Food and beverage costs were down almost 3% year over year due to menu price increases and lower beef prices.

With no disruption to restaurant facilities, shutdown costs, and other items, the burrito chain earned $ 7.46 per share, beating the $ 6.52 per share analysts surveyed by Refinitiv had expected.

Net sales rose 38.7 percent to $ 1.89 billion, beating expectations of $ 1.88 billion. Sales in the same store increased by 31.2%. A year ago, the company’s sales in the same store fell more than 9% after the lockdown hurt demand.

After online orders skyrocketed last year, Chipotle saw slow growth for this part of its business. Digital sales grew 10.5%, accounting for 48.5% of the company’s quarterly sales. In the first quarter, Chipotle’s online orders overtook in-person sales for the first time.

“I suspect the percentage will likely go down a bit when the dining rooms return,” CEO Brian Niccol said on CNBCs “Final bell” on Tuesday. “What I’m watching are the absolute dollars we make in our digital business.”

Niccol said dining room traffic is about 70% of the 2019 level, while the company is holding about 80% of the gains in its digital orders. He also said customers are returning for lunch.

Chipotle opened 56 new locations and closed five restaurants in the quarter.

Looking to the third quarter, assuming current trends continue, the company forecasts low to mid double-digit sales growth in the same business. In the third quarter of 2020, sales in the same store rose 8.3%. Niccol said the Delta Covid variant has not yet affected consumer behavior.

This is the latest news. Please check again for updates.

‘Bordertown’ to ‘Bordertown,’ this Mexican author’s journey by means of Hollywood | Arts & Leisure

LOS ANGELES — Whenever I visit Olvera Street, as I did a few weeks ago, my walk through the historic corridor is always the same.

Start at the plaza. Say a prayer at the massive cross that marks the area as the birthplace of Los Angeles. Pass the stand where out-of-towners and politicians have donned sombreros and serapes for photos ever since the city turned this area into a tourist trap in 1930.

Look at the vendor stalls. Wonder if I need a new guayabera. Gobble up two beef taquitos bathed in avocado salsa at Cielito Lindo. Then return to my car and go home.

I’ve done this walk as a kid, and as an adult. For food crawls and quick lunches. With grad students on field trips, and with the late Anthony Bourdain for an episode of his “Parts Unknown.”

This last visit was different, though: I had my own camera crew with me.

My last chance at Hollywood fame was going to live or die on Olvera Street.

I was shooting a sizzle reel — footage that a producer will turn into a clip for television executives to determine whether I’m worthy of a show. In this case, I want to turn my 2012 book “Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America” into the next “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.” Or “Somebody Feed Phil.” Or an Alton Brown ripoff. Or a TikTok series.

Anything at this point, really.

For more than a decade, I’ve tried to break into Hollywood with some success — but the experience has left me cynical. Personal experience and the historical record have taught me that studios and streamers still want Mexicans to stay in the same cinematic lane that American film has paved for more than a century. We’re forever labeled… something. Exotic. Dangerous. Weighed down with problems. Never fully developed, autonomous humans. Always “Mexican.”

Even if we’re natives of Southern California. Especially if we’re natives of Southern California.

I hope my sizzle reel will lead to something different. I doubt it will because the issue is systemic. Industry executives, producers, directors and scriptwriters can only portray the Mexicans they know — and in a perverse, self-fulfilling prophecy, they mostly only know the Mexicans their industry depicts even in a region where Latinos make up nearly half the population.

The vicious cycle even infects creators like me.

As the film crew and I left for our next location, I stopped and looked around. We were right where I began, except I now looked south on Main Street. The plaza was to my left; to my right was the historic La Placita church. City Hall loomed on the horizon. The vista was the same as the opening scene of “Bordertown,” a 1935 Warner Bros. film I had seen the night before. It was the first Hollywood movie to address modern-day Mexican Americans in Los Angeles.

What I saw was more than deja vu. It was a reminder that 86 years later, Hollywood’s Mexican problem hasn’t really progressed at all.

Screen misrepresentation of Mexicans isn’t just a longstanding wrong; it’s an original sin. And it has an unsurprising Adam: D.W. Griffith.

He’s most infamous for reawakening the Ku Klux Klan with his 1915 epic “The Birth of a Nation.” Far less examined is how Griffith’s earliest works also helped give American filmmakers a language with which to typecast Mexicans.

Two of his first six films were so-called “greaser” movies, one-reelers where Mexican Americans were racialized as inherently criminal and played by white people (a third flick replaced Mexican bandits with Spanish ones). His 1908 effort “The Greaser’s Gauntlet” is the earliest film to use the slur in its title. Griffith filmed at least eight greaser movies on the East Coast before heading to Southern California in early 1910 for better weather.

The new setting allowed Griffith to double down on his Mexican obsession. He used the San Gabriel and San Juan Capistrano missions as backdrops for melodramas embossed with the Spanish Fantasy Heritage, the white California myth that romanticized the state’s Mexican past even as it discriminated against the Mexicans of the present.

In films such as his 1910 shorts “The Thread of Destiny,” “In Old California” (the first movie shot in what would become Hollywood) and “The Two Brothers,” Griffith codified cinematic Mexican characters and themes that persist. The reprobate father. The saintly mother. The wayward son. The idea that Mexicans are forever doomed because they’re, well, Mexicans.

Griffith based his plots not on how modern-day Mexicans actually lived, but rather on how white people thought they did. This presumption nearly earned Griffith a beating from angry Latinos.

As described in Robert M. Henderson’s 1970 book “D.W. Griffith: The Years at Biograph,” the director was staging a religious procession in San Juan Capistrano for “The Two Brothers” when a large crowd “suddenly broke and rushed the actors” because they felt the scene mocked them. The company rushed to their hotel where the townspeople waited outside for hours. Only the intercession of the Spanish-speaking hotel owner stopped a certain riot. It was perhaps the earliest Latino protest against negative depictions of them on the big screen.

But the threat of angry Mexicans didn’t kill greaser movies. Griffith showed the box-office potential of the genre, and many American cinematic pioneers dabbled in them. Thomas Edison’s company shot some, as did its biggest rival, Vitagraph Studios. So did Mutual Film, an early home for Charlie Chaplin. Horror legend Lon Chaney played a greaser. The first Western star, Broncho Billy Anderson, made a career out of besting them.

These films were so noxious that the Mexican government in 1922 banned studios that produced them from the country until they “retired… denigrating films from worldwide circulation,” according to a letter that Mexican President Alvaro Obregon wrote to his Secretariat of External Relations. The gambit worked: the greaser films ended. Screenwriters instead reimagined Mexicans as Latin lovers, Mexican spitfires, buffoons, peons, mere bandits and other negative stereotypes.

That’s why “Bordertown” surprised me when I finally saw it. The Warner Bros. movie, starring Paul Muni as an Eastside lawyer named Johnny Ramirez and Bette Davis as the temptress whom he spurns, was popular when released. Today, it’s almost impossible to see outside of a hard-to-find DVD and an occasional Muni marathon on Turner Classic Movies.

Based on a novel of the same name, it’s not the racist travesty many Chicano film scholars have made it out to be. Yes, Muni was a non-Mexican playing a Mexican. Johnny Ramirez had a fiery temper, a bad accent and repeatedly called his mother (played by Spanish actress Soledad Jiminez ) “mamacita,” who in turn calls him “Juanito.” The infamous, incredulous ending has Ramirez suddenly realizing the vacuity of his fast, fun life and returning to the Eastside “back where I belong … with my own people.” And the film’s poster features a bug-eyed, sombrero-wearing Muni pawing a fetching Davis, even though Ramirez never made a move on Davis’ character or wore a sombrero.

These and other faux pas (like Ramirez’s friends singing “La Cucaracha” at a party) distract from a movie that didn’t try to mask the discrimination Mexicans faced in 1930s Los Angeles. Ramirez can’t find justice for his neighbor, who lost his produce truck after a drunk socialite on her way back from dinner at Las Golondrinas on Olvera Street smashed into it. That very socialite, whom Ramirez goes on to date (don’t ask), repeatedly calls him “Savage” as a term of endearment. When Ramirez tires of American bigotry and announces he’s moving south of the border to run a casino, a priest in brownface asks him to remain.

“For what?” Ramirez replies. “So those white little mugs who call themselves gentlemen and aristocrats can make a fool out of me?”

“Bordertown” sprung up from Warner Bros.’ Depression-era roster of social-problem films that served as a rough-edged alternative to the escapism offered by MGM, Disney and Paramount. But its makers committed the same error Griffith did: They fell back on tropes instead of talking to Mexicans right in front of them who might offer a better tale.

Just take the first shot of “Bordertown,” the one I inadvertently recreated on my television shoot.

Under a title that reads “Los Angeles … the Mexican Quarter,” viewers see Olvera Street’s plaza emptier than it should be. That’s because just four years earlier, immigration officials rounded up hundreds of individuals at that very spot. The move was part of a repatriation effort by the American government that saw them boot about a million Mexicans — citizens and not — from the United States during the 1930s.

Following that opening shot is a brief glimpse of a theater marquee that advertises a Mexican music trio called Los Madrugadores (“The Early Risers”). They were the most popular Spanish-language group in Southern California at the time, singing traditional corridos but also ballads about the struggles Mexicans faced in the United States. Lead singer Pedro J. Gonzalez hosted a popular AM radio morning show heard as far away as Texas that mixed music and denunciations against racism.

By the time “Bordertown” was released in 1935, Gonzalez was in San Quentin, jailed by a false accusation of statutory rape pursued by an LA district attorney’s office happy to lock up a critic. He was freed in 1940 after the alleged victim recanted her confession, then summarily deported to Tijuana, where Gonzalez continued his career before returning to California in the 1970s.

Doesn’t Gonzalez and his times make a better movie than “Bordertown”? Warner Bros. could have offered a bold corrective to the image of Mexican Americans if they had just paid attention to their own footage! Instead, Gonzalez’s saga wouldn’t be told on film until a 1984 documentary and 1988 drama.

Both were shot in San Diego. Both received only limited screenings at theaters across the American Southwest and an airing on PBS before going on video. No streamer carries it.

How Hollywood imagines Mexicans versus how we really are turned real for me in 2013, when I became a consulting producer for a Fox cartoon about life on the U.S.-Mexico border.

It aired in 2015 and lasted one season. I enjoyed the end product. I even got to write an episode, which just so happened to be the series finale.

The gig was a dream long deferred. My bachelor’s degree from Chapman University was in film. I had visions of becoming the brown Tarantino or a Mexican Truffaut before journalism got in the way. Over the years, there was Hollywood interest in articles or columns I wrote but never anything that required I do more than a couple of meetings — or scripts by white screenwriters that went nowhere.

But “Bordertown” opened up more doors for me and inspired me to give Hollywood a go.

While I worked on the cartoon, I got another consulting producer credit on a Fusion special for comedian Al Madrigal and sold a script to ABC that same year about gentrification in Boyle Heights through the eyes of a restaurant years before the subject became a trend. Pitch meetings piled up with so much frequency that my childhood friends coined a nickname for me: Hollywood Gus.

My run wouldn’t last long. The microaggressions became too annoying.

The veteran writers on “Bordertown” rolled their eyes any time I said that one of their jokes was cliched, like the one about how eating beans gave our characters flatulent superpowers or the one about a donkey show in Tijuana. Or when they initially rejected a joke about menudo, saying no one knew what the soup was, and they weren’t happy when another Latino writer and I pointed out that you’re pretty clueless if you’ve lived in Southern California for a while and don’t know what menudo is.

The writers were so petty, in fact, that they snuck a line into the animated “Bordertown” where the main character said, “There’s nothing worse than a Mexican with glasses” — which is now my public email to forever remind me of how clueless Hollywood is.

The insults didn’t bother me so much as the insight I gained from those interactions: The only Latinos most Hollywood types know are the janitors and security guards at the studio, and nannies and gardeners at their homes. The few Latinos in the industry I met had assimilated into this worldview as well.

Could I blame them for their ignorance when it came to capturing Mexican American stories, especially those in Southern California? Of course I can.

What ended any aspirations for a full-time Hollywood career was a meeting with a television executive shortly after ABC passed on my Boyle Heights script (characters weren’t believable, per the rejection). They repeatedly asked that I think about doing a show about my father’s life, which didn’t interest me. Comedies about immigrant parents are cliched at this point. So one day I blurted that I was more interested in telling my stories.

I never heard from the executive again.

Five years later, and that Hollywood dream just won’t leave me.

I’m not leaving journalism. But at this point, I just want to prove to myself that I can help exorcise D.W. Griffith’s anti-Mexican demons from Hollywood once and for all. That I can show the Netflix honcho they were wrong for passing on a “Taco USA” series with the excuse that the topic of Mexican food in the United States was too “limited.” And the Food Network people who said they just couldn’t see a show about the subject as being as “fun” as it was. Or the big-time Latino actor’s production company who wanted the rights to my “¡Ask a Mexican!” book, then ghosted me after I said I didn’t hold them but I did own the rights to my brain.

When this food-show sizzle reel gets cut, and I start my Hollywood jarabe anew, I’ll keep in mind a line in “Bordertown” that Johnny Ramirez said: “An American man can lift himself up by his bootstraps. All he needs is strength and a pair of boots.”

Mexicans have had the strength since forever in this town. But can Hollywood finally give us the botas?

©2021 Los Angeles Times. Visit latimes.com. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

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Mariachi Leisure System fuses Mexican people music

TEXAS – Alina Mallén’s fingers strum a vihuela while reading music.

“I love to play Vihuela, it’s from Mexico,” said Mallén.

Mallén is a professional mariachi and plays most of her adult life. San Antonians can even tell their time at Spurs games. As much as she is a traditionalist, the music is an arrangement from “Gerudo Valley”. The song debuted in 1998 on Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.

“It’s so much fun playing different chords and different progressions. You don’t usually see that in traditional music, ”she said.

Mallén is a founding member of Mariachi Entertainment System. She is known as Doomsday Lozano according to her website Bio.

“It’s great fun to see other people’s nostalgia when they hear us,” said Mallén.

Mallén makes singing, plays the flute and vihuela. As founding member David Ortiz will tell you, she can do pretty much anything.

“We’re putting the finishing touches on a ‘Zelda’ album that we’re working on to release later this year,” said Ortiz.

Ortiz is the musical director and writes arrangements for the band. He started playing mariachi in college and is a classically trained musician.

“I noticed that mariachis were often discredited. I didn’t really feel the stereotypes about mariachis were true, it wasn’t always five fat guys getting drunk in a bar and sounding awful, “Ortiz said. “There are a lot of good musicians who play.”

Ortiz felt that video game music also went unrecognized.

“Video game music also fell into the same category in which other classical musicians did not legitimize it. I thought if I did both, others would see that both are worthwhile efforts, ”Ortiz said.

MES has been around since 2015. Her YouTube channel shows some of her live performances before the pandemic, including venues like PAX South in San Antonio. Ortiz thought the YouTube channel was a toast in 2020, but the group stepped up and posted 20 videos last year.

While Ortiz doesn’t brag about every part of the group’s work, he’s proud of the work they’ve done from various studios.

“The little thing about getting a successful mix of such styles is a tricky endeavor,” said Ortiz.

As fascinating as it may be to see mariachis play video game music for some, there are people who believe they are too deviated from tradition.

“People try to say things like, ‘Why are you playing this with mariachi? It shouldn’t be. ‘We changed it from the start,’ said Mallén.

She describes Charro Avitia and Mariachi Vargas as artists who inspired change.

“There is an occasional person who doesn’t want to hear mariachi music being played and singing in English. It’s not your cup of tea, ”Ortiz said. “It’s this criticism of how mariachis or musicians approached other genres.”

Ortiz equates the beauty of fusing two genres of music with food.

“You can put ketchup on your tacos and call for a fusion. Using the same ingredients thoughtfully to create something that is actually representative of different styles and cultures is a lot trickier and requires a lot more thought, “Ortiz said.