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| - I only go to Taco Bell late at night when everything else is closed. I keep coming back. I can't help myself. This is a disease more than a quest for sustenance. Regardless of what you order the items taste the same. The Taco Bell taste is a characteristic flavor and texture that immediately triggers the brain's memory. The strange amalgam of ingredients seem to converge to an equilibrium for every menu item so that the result is always the same. I'm sure PhD chemists were involved in this. Like a Siren's song once you fall prey to its call, you can never break its grip on you. Those who pray at the alter of the fourth meal temple are too familiar with this. Don't believe me, check out the long lines in the drive thru after midnight. It's a shared addiction suffered by midnight fast food junkies. Anticipation heightens.
I don't know what to say. The food is inconsistent in every way. The portions vary wildly. The regular taco is noteworthy in this sense. I've had them with literally a sprinkling of ingredients in the shell. What manner of man does this to a hungry fellow man? Oh, a cruel twist of fate. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Did the preparer not think of our eventual disappointment upon discovery of an empty shell? Should any man be confronted by such an existential moment so late at night on an empty stomach? Anxiety riddles.
They routinely run out of ingredients. "We're out of tomatoes. Is that OK?" "On a Taco Supreme? Are you kidding me?" "No more hot sauce?" "What? Isn't this supposed to be a Mexican food restaurant?". Who has the mental acuity this late at night to make such weighty decisions on an empty stomach no less? Not me. Frustration mounts.
The iconic Burrito Supreme. It was legendary when first unveiled years ago. Today it serves only as a sad reminder of what was once the leading edge in burrito offerings. It's now embarrassingly undersized with ingredients that mix together into an unidentifiable goo. The stuff is almost fluid and seeps towards one end so by the time you open it at home, you have to squeeze it to even it out. Can you imagine ever having to do this at Chipotle? And yet I order one with every visit. Help me. Help me. Hopelessness envelopes.
And what is it that compels you to buy five tacos and two burritos every visit? Yet ironically, you can never get full on Taco Bell food. Your jaw tires before your stomach is ever full. Unrewarded gluttony.
Service. Volumes could be written about this. Service at Taco Bell tends to be more of an event than an experience. The bottom rung of the human food chain must start with the midnight shift at Taco Bell. How long can it possibly take to get an order, punch a few keys on the register and slap together a couple of tacos? The pace is excruciatingly glacial. Impatience overwhelms.
I shudder to guess what the turnover rate is for the midnight crew. This is evidenced by the blank stares, the long hesitation, the occasional look of terror that are dead giveaways for a first day on the job. It happens every visit. These poor souls are the tip of the spear in fast food. Like advance recon in infantry, these guys and gals don't last long. They're human cannon fodder. If you have an ounce of humanity in you, you can't help but pity them knowing you'll never see them again, even if you go back the next night. Sorrow weighs heavily.
And so ends another midnight trip to Taco Bell. All that suspense and adventure for eight bucks. You laugh, you cry. What other late night fast food joint offers more?
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