Trask Avenue

Yesterday I thought about how much I still enjoy Taco Bell, then remembered I wrote something about this almost exactly seven years ago. It remains accurate.

Dear Taco Bell,

Thirty years. Can you believe thirty years have passed since I first noticed your bright, bold colors and your exotic, intoxicating fragrance? Can you believe three decades slipped by since I first experienced that taste sensation which is so uniquely you? Can you believe all that has come and gone since our first casual late night encounter, fueled by a desire so intense it owned me? Can you believe across all these years and all these miles we sit here, still together, still feeding each other what we crave? Thirty years. Can you believe it?

What started as a youthful flirtation has blossomed into a lifelong feast. I would’ve never guessed on that windswept Oklahoma day in 1979 that today you’d still be serving it up better than anyone. (How could I possibly??) Such long-term thoughts never crossed my carefree mind. Driven by the passion and obsession of youth, consumed with a hunger which seemingly would never die, we hooked up. We were frenzied, sloppy, constant and extreme. With that first burst of south of the border nirvana I was hooked, a junkie forever in search of his fix for tacos, burrito supremes, mexi-melts and enchiritos. Always enchiritos. Whatever you offered, I ravenously devoured. Repeatedly. Without hesitation, without apology. Remembering those clumsy, secret moments of long ago during this summer of 2009, I smile.

We’ve carried on through six presidents, the fall of the Soviet Union, the Walkman and the curious emergence of peach salsa. I weathered the elimination of black olives and corn tortillas from your menu; you weathered my pitiful wandering eye. Yes, it’s true. Immature, full of folly, always looking for more delectable treats, I strayed. I’m sure you remember those few intense weeks with McRib. Of course you do – how could you not? You never hassled me about that or any of my numerous other indiscretions with the flavor of the month – crunchy fried chicken, waffle fries, jamocha shakes, the (gulp) Baconator. The list goes on; it shames me to think of it. Yet no matter how seductive they seemed, the thrill inevitably died. Throughout it all you remained true to yourself, never complaining, never accusing, waiting with quiet dignity and the firm belief I’d come back.

You were always the smart one. I always came back.

Without those insatiable periods in our shared history I would’ve never come to understand the beauty of moderation, the noble elegance of not overdoing it. Please don’t misread me. Although we don’t meet like we did during those halcyon days, our fire still scorches like a habanero. The excess of those crazy times, when all the future was measured in minutes and not years (and certainly not decades), has grown into a mature, deeper appreciation for that which perseveres. Like you. While it’s true we combo less than we once did, it’s equally true that now when we do it is more satisfying than ever.

Life has changed you and it’s certainly changed me. But it hasn’t changed us. It hasn’t changed the way I still salivate as the wrapping slips off. It hasn’t changed my vigorous defense of your honor when the naysayers raise their dirty hands and spout their hateful epitaphs. It hasn’t changed the electric charge I get from the magic juju only you provide.

Our story may be cheesy, unconventional and outside the bun, but it’s ours.

“¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!”

Love,
John
(August 13, 2009)