The Mexican chicken wrap is defined by containment, not by its filling. Spiced chicken, salsa, guacamole, sour cream, often cheese and shredded leaves, are rolled inside a soft flour tortilla into a sealed cylinder, and the engineering problem is holding a loose, wet, multi-component filling in one hand without it failing along its length. The tortilla is not a flavour. It is the structural decision: a flexible bread that folds entirely around the load instead of stacking it between two rigid faces, which is the only way this particular combination of a hot spiced protein and three cold wet sauces can be carried and eaten while moving.
The craft is moisture management against a seam. A rolled wrap splits if the centre goes wet, so the chicken is cooked dry and hot, spiced rather than sauced, and the moisture is added back under control through salsa and guacamole that are thick enough to bind rather than run. The sour cream does double duty, a cooling counter to the spice and a binder that holds the shredded leaves and cheese in place against the chicken. The components are layered so the wettest sit inside, away from the seam, and the tortilla is usually warmed so it folds tight rather than cracking. The fold at each end seals the cylinder; a wrap that is rolled loose or filled to the edge blows out the moment it is bitten, which is why the assembly matters more than any single element.
The variations track the high-street fridge and the takeaway counter. The fajita wrap leans on peppers and onions cooked with the chicken; the burrito-style build packs in rice and beans for bulk; a chilli or piri-piri version swaps the spicing while keeping the cool sauce as the fixed counter. Each is the same rolled, contained idea wearing a different heat and a different bulk, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.