Taco Bell

Taco Bell.

Let’s start small, specific. Tonight.

This one was a newer one, with the grey walls and more minimalist purple and white logo, and a walk-up ordering window. Very hip, very Denver. It also had a drive through but I needed to stretch my legs. It also had a TV, and the TV had on the news, and the news was that a detective was missing. And then they showed a picture of Neighbor Steve, looking good, and missing as well. There was no volume, but they brought the pictures of Neighbor Steve and Detective Cosden together above the anchor’s shoulder and she talked for a bit and then there was the third picture, of course. And then a fourth. And then a fifth I didn’t recognize, huh. And then a sixth. And then a closeup of the anchor looking awfully serious. Six separate data points strung together…how exactly? I was surprised, but hungry. Which is dangerous thing to be in a Taco Bell.

This one had a lot of purple. They all do, but tonight’s used it less as an accent color than as a punch in the face – designed to destabilize the mind upon entry, to disrupt the edible input modulator enough so that flavor, and not caloric need, dictated your order. The menu is an extension of that. An eighteen-foot-long hellscape of beautiful, bastardized Mexican food arranged with no particular logic or flow. A miraculous clusterfuck of innovation laid before you by a marketing department constantly trying to one up itself. The variety is astounding but misleading, all of the hundred items just a repackaging of the same ten ingredients. Everything sounds good because everything is the same. This is not a complaint.

It’s a matter, then, of separating the ingredients that matter from the ones that don’t and then picking the optimal delivery system. The correct answer to this, and to everything, is the Quesarito. A quesadilla wrapped around a pocket of ground beef, sour cream, and Taco Bell’s plastic imitation of queso. It’s disgusting and it’s perfect. An infusion of liquid (basically) guilt that forces you to tell yourself “this is fine” or confront the fact that it’s so clearly not. A quick, easy lie if you don’t linger on it. Because there will be guilt. For any fast food, but especially this unholy stew of processed dairy, part of you will always be aware that there’s nothing to justify consumption of it as long as ANYTHING else exists. Or not? A spin, a twist, a stretch, and the unacceptable becomes merely irresponsible. A sign to yield instead of stop – a vital distinction when you’re at a juncture where morality becomes either crippling or irrelevant. Which wasn’t a gate I ever thought I’d see, let alone open. Not that I’m blaming the universe. One could’ve been written off as accidental, or at least unfortunate, but Two certainly couldn’t be, and from there it’s hard to say I was driven by anything other than selfish need. It was never personal. Eight wasn’t, even if he seemed like it. Just the unfortunate fallout from a basic, almost comical, precaution that Nine was too stubborn to move on from. And whether he pieced it together or he was just the final piece, all the data points were on the same chart now. Or at least enough of them.

Anyway, I’m rambling. I’ll try to keep this about the food.

The Quesarito is a miracle and I got two, one ground beef and one steak to treat myself. And then four soft tacos to fill in the gaps – miracles in their own right since they’re twice the size of the hipster, five dollar street tacos sold everywhere in Denver but somehow I can eat eighty of them. The guy behind me ordered two double decker tacos and cinnamon twists. Which…really? A double decker taco is a hard shell taco wrapped in a flour tortilla with a spread of refried beans in between. Not to be dramatic, but it’s an abomination. Worse than polio. Some people like refried beans, I guess I get that. But, then, get a bean burrito? Refried beans anywhere, but especially Taco Bell, are overconfident and undertalented, demanding your attention before letting you down. Every bite. So you’re getting a bean burrito but paying three dollars more for… texture, I guess? Poor guy might’ve just bought the first two double decker tacos ever sold. I wasn’t mad at him, of course, but wrong place/wrong time and all that, and Ten would be a nice round number.

I stopped for a second on my way out the door. Grey and purple and beautiful and perfect. Smell of salt, feel of grease. Equal parts guilt and pleasure. And then my face showed up on the TV.

And I walked out.