Taco Bell is my dirty little secret. Despite my repeated insistence that I "don't really eat fast food," I'm summoned time and time again, by something deep and primal, to make these shameful, clandestine runs for the "border." I've hypothesized conspiratorially; I've convinced myself of something irresistible in those little packets of "Hot" sauce (no, not Mild or Fire), that there's caffeine in the refried bean mix, or smack in the quasi-guacamole.
In any case, it seems strange to be reviewing a Taco Bell. I've always assumed they were all basically identical, save for varying degrees of consequent intestinal discomfort; different photos of peppers and onions adorning the walls.
That is, until I visited the Best Taco Bell Ever.
It was the 4th of July, and my good friend and fellow yelper Mark D. and our respective life partners were on our way to a shindig at our pal's cabin on Lake Goodwin. Mark had related that, the previous year, he and his girl had visited an unusually good Taco Bell. Friendly, teenaged employees! Lovingly rolled burritos! A clean atmosphere, almost totally devoid of despair! As I mentioned, I rarely eat fast food, and have actively sworn off most chains, but something about the Bell's faux-Mexican siren song keeps me coming back for more.
From the back seat, I murmured something about wanting to check out this fabled "good" Taco Bell, and wouldn't it be funny if we stopped in RIGHT NOW? No one caught wise, and it didn't take too much convincing before everyone was on board--despite having a Prius hatchback full of grill-ready burgers, marinated veggie skewers and brats. Here we were, ready for a day of lakeside barbecue. Here we were, ready to pre-func, border style.
We were greeted by a decor which, in most restaurants, would be considered garish, but by fast food standards looked almost posh. Warmly geometric shapes and patterns, gilded in the Bell's trademark, hunger-inducing blend of autumnal reds, yellows, and purples. Artwork--actual artwork!--hanging on the walls, most of which was corny, Mt. Rainier-based calendar fodder, but nonetheless...I couldn't believe my eyes. Was this decor...tasteful? It could have been the Taco Bell flagship store--the bottom floor of corporate headquarters in Manhattan or Santa Fe, tucked away beneath a hundred stories of office space dedicated to marketing the Volcano Taco, or inventing Fifthmeal, or whatever the fuck it is they do. Maybe this was where Taco Bell's corporate schmoozers took visiting Eastern Bloc dignitaries when convincing them to allow a franchise in their war-torn, but burgeoning, capital city.
Nope. You're in Marysville. Was this how people in their thirties finally caved and fell in like with the suburbs? We'd start going on about how clean everything is, how quiet. What a great place to raise kids. We'd realize that what we'd previously taken for Seattle's "character" was just layers of grime and a greater proportion of schizophrenics riding public transit.
The late teen-something at the counter was all smiles, and began chatting us up immediately about the price of fireworks, as we scanned the glowing menus above his purple visor. "I live in Stanwood, and my paycheck pretty much goes to Boom City every 4th." His banter would have been a bit much, if it weren't for his utter, doe-eyed earnestness.
Our orders reflected an abiding respect for the classics, as well as a genuine curiosity in how this particular franchise stacked up on them. Nachos Bell Grande, Burrito Supreme. Crunchy Tacos, Bean Burritos, a "Crunchwrap Supreme." We gathered napkins and packets of hot sauce, we selected a cushy semi-circular booth...and we waited.
Quickly--but not too quickly--the pie-faced cashier appeared with two trays of paper-wrapped food.
"Can I get you anything else?" he asked. We were flabbergasted. What was happening? Was this...customer service? I almost ordered a margarita, but instead we muttered that, no, we were okay for now, and began to unwrap our entrees.
The burritos, as promised, were wrapped with care--folded on both ends, no leaks. The nachos were crispy under their blanket of sour cream and refried beans. The hot sauce was tangy and delicious. The Mountain Dew flowed like wine. Halfway through the meal, someone appeared and asked if they could get us anything else, but we were oblivious. Bite by bite, we were discovering that the ingredients were, indeed, evenly distributed. No more mouthfuls of sour cream and tortilla. No more huddled dozens of naked chips, shielded from toppings by too many of their soggy brethren. No more mediocrity. This was fast food with a soul.
This is how you build an empire, I thought. This must be what all Taco Bells were like twenty years ago, before they stopped caring.
This Taco Bell, I thought, is the problem with fast food. read more