*Rings*

“Hello, this is Taco Bell. How can I help you today?”

“Yes, I’d like to make a reservation.”

[Extremely awkward pause]

“A reservation for two, please.”

“We…uh…can’t do that.”

“I know it’s Sunday and those church crowds get pretty hairy, but hear me out. I’m a professional food reviewer for the paper.”

“…Uh, we don’t do reservations. For anybody.”

“I see, exclusivity, well played. I award you 1 food review point (We’ll call these points “forks”—every critic needs their own thing).”

*Click*

So it’s hardball you want to play, that’s fine nameless Taco Bell employee. I’m game. I’ll Anthony Bourdain this bitch, with no reservations. The only thing harder than my resolve to complete this review is my desire not to piss off my boss, plus I already preemptively choked down half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. I kinda feel like I’d be wasting it if I didn’t test my stomach in some way. I have a slight headache from a heavy pint the night before, but i’m determined. Today is the day I start my new life. No more social media desk jockeying, I’m a professional food reviewer now, dammit. T-bell might not be the most glamorous of assignments, but I’m going to review the ever loving hell out of this new breakfast menu.

I step into the “restaurant” and am immediately surprised by its overall cleanliness. It smells nice—and even more bizarre—it’s packed. And not with the neckbearded and Walmart dwelling creatures you might suspect. Regular, seemingly normal people got up and out of their houses early to come and try the coveted new breakfast menu. These sad lost souls have come here for sustenance, not knowing what lay ahead. You foolish fools! Only the stoned or severely intoxicated should ever enter these walls. I turn to return to my car, deciding that the drive-thru is the best plan of action, so I can receive my food order quickly and hide my shame from the public eye.

I order a slew of items that I hoped would satiate my gluttonous desire for punishment. On the drive home, I listen to World War Z on audiotape. The vapors from the plastic bag waft toward my nose, mixing with my Coronado Cherry air freshener, and I briefly contemplate if the undead would even dare eat this meal. Or if maybe I’ll end up Patient 0 in some zombie apocalypse as a side effect from a waffle taco recipe that has gone awry.

Course One: The Hashtangle ™

The anticipation is palpable as I unwrap my first item from it’s semi-transparent grease soaked receptacle. Perhaps my cynicism has gotten the best of me; perhaps I will do as the bag indicates and “Live Mas.” But all the hope is stolen from my eyes as I tear away the decorated veneer. What I have unsheathed is a geometric oddity (see exhibit A). A quarter-inch thick husk of what apparently used to be a potato (at least in theory), which houses only slightly more grease than the wax paper throne it rode in on. As I bite into the hash patty, a familiar flavor comes to mind. It’s virtually the same as a McDonald’s hash brown only double the surface area, because fuck your cholesterol.

Course two: The Breakfast Crunchsad Supreme ™

I’m not totally disheartened at this point, because even though this meal is likely nutritionally bankrupt, I have to imagine this next bite will at least taste delicious. It’s a thick tortilla disk injection molded with only the most glorious of breakfast ingredients: egg, cheese, stuff?, etc. It’s sad, but I think this might be as close as Back to the Future meal pills we’re ever going to get. No futuristic nutrition delivery systems, no pills that microwave into pizza—just a sad tortilla pocket filled with the remnants of yesteryear’s breakfast lore. The texture is a half crunchy, half squishy combo. As you can notice, there is yet another taterpad stuffed in here as well, topped with mishmash of indiscernible giblets (see exhibit B). After seeing it’s innards, I decide the best course of action is to bury the beast in ketchup and power through it.

Course three: The where is your god now? Wawful Taco ™

As I peel back the lid of the grease coffin, my anus puckers as I behold the culinary abortion that lay before me. I can feel it staring back at me in all it’s nutritionally-lacking kinetic glory —challenging me, proud in its defiance of the very notion of “food.” I see a matted shine come off the beast, a glimmer that unmeasurable layers of grease can afford. In this glare, I feel as though I can see the future, and it is unmistakably one of diarrhea. No amount of condiment will save me. I bite in. There is no trace of waffle flavoring, just the anomalous texture of wet, yet somehow crunchy sponge. I forego the syrup as there’s no reason to add the insult of high fructose corn syrup to the injury of this cuisine. Besides I have my BLACK CHERRY ICY BAJA BLASTER ™ to wash down my guilt. I AM BECOME INDIGESTION.

Desert: Cinnabetes Exploders ™

I was cocky to think I’d have the cojones to take on a 3 course meal of T-bell breakfast and still have the constitution for desert. But in for a penny, in for a pound. These oversized brown rabbit droppings do smell delicious. I bite in and can feel what I assume to be at least 50 grams of sugar eviscerate my taste buds as lukewarm liquid frosting explodes into my mouth. I felt violated, but in the best possible way. It’s the sweet to end all sweets. In the wake of the sugarsplosion™, I’m left wondering how long before the mighty T-bell will have to start including shots of insulin as a side for this particular entree.

OVERALL SCORE:

What can really be said? It’s fast food, it’s the absolute lowest rung of the food service industry. If you’re only willing to pay $3.25 for an item that can be prepared in the span of 3 minutes, your expectations shouldn’t be high—you should probably be. I would be remiss if I didn’t note that not one item contained a single observable vegetable. So overall as a restaurant I’d have to say 0 forks given, however if this were instead a review of a Dr.’s office administering colonics I’d give it plenty of forks.