Remember that “Tastiest Taco” challenge me and Linds were supposed to embark on several months back? Yeah well, fuck tacos . . that’s what happened to that challenge.
Because, Cuban sandwiches seem to drop out of the sky in meat and potatoes Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Tacos? Not so much. Our doomed journey began with a mutual friend’s suggestion that we check out a dive bar he frequented. The lead seemed solid enough, and the beer specials were friendly. So we showed up on “Taco Tuesday”. As per the definition, it means that the establishment created a holiday just for tacos. Which means there should have been ample amounts of said tacos on the premises. SO many tacos that if you drew up satellite imagery, Pennsylvania would look like one big fucking taco from space.
Okay, maybe I’m being just a tad bit hyperbolic. But was it too much to ask that we might shake loose a taco or several on a day that was designated as ripe with the little buggers?
We put in our drink orders first, because . . priorities. And besides, the first rule of taco eating is to always be hydrated. And I know, I know . . alcohol tends to have the opposite effect. Which is why you have to drink more of it.
It was a good thing we had our drinks when the horrible truth came down.
“We’re out of tacos . . ” The waitress informed us, as if it was no big deal that we weren’t going to be able to warm our taste buds in tortilla blankets. It would’ve been akin to saying Wednesday lost its hump or Saturday Night lost its fever. The Shakespearean tragedy of it all was lost on her.
Top Five Thoughts on “We’re Out of Tacos” Night? . . sure why not.
5- Is it scientifically possible to ‘run out’ of tacos if you’re a restaurant? I mean, you can run out of tortilla shells . . but if you’re a restaurant and you ain’t got any of the other basic ingredients to a taco? You’re probably out of business.
4- We should have been gifted free beer for the regrettable inconvenience.
3-We went on a taco challenge and ended up on a taco diet.
2- If you run out of tortilla shells? Compensate with flat bread and corn chips . . close your eyes and bon apetit!
1- As a result of this ordeal, I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch Nacho Libre even once. That. Is. Sad.
The dive bar was strike one, after which there were another couple strikes in there somewhere . . it’s been a while now. The doomed challenge was not limited to restaurants, either. When I offered to make tacos for my kids, they turned them down. After which I realized I might never eat a taco again.
Sooooo, the winner of our Tastiest Taco challenge was . . . .
Yeah . . I know. But here’s the thing. You know what you get when you ask for a taco at Taco Bell? A fucking taco, that’s what!
At this point, you’re probably asking, ‘Hey Sorryless peeps . . so what’s the next food challenge’? To which we reply, there ain’t one. We’re gonna stick to erotic food stories with no specific main character from now on. We shall simply rejoice in the glory of food as we bang the shit out of it. How much more poetic can you get?
Fast forward to our latest jaunt . . . it was a dive bar, because we’re consistent with our culinary delights. Imma be the provocateur and give up the money shots. I ordered the wings with Chesapeake Bay sweet spice sauce. It was hot and sticky sweet as per the Def Leppard method of doing business. A promising opening act . . .
The pit beef sammy on a kaiser roll was played up on the restaurant’s website as if it was last meal delicious. Sorry but, if that was my last meal I’d skip dinner and buckle up for hell. I picked at it before deciding as to whether I would dive in and it proved dryer than Jason Bateman’s humor, so I decided I would try and revive it with some culinary surgery when I got home and chowed down on my side of onion rings instead.
The girls ordered gravy fries, which is a tasty combination of super foods- essential to a long life . . for your cardiologist. In Quebec, they add cheese curds and call the stuff ‘poutine’, because they’re so much more sophisticated than us ‘Muricans.
The girls got the cheesesteak with bacon crumbles on the side since Linds ain’t the biggest fan of bacon. It got me thinking. Imma order a side of bacon crumbles everywhere I go. Yes, especially Starbucks.
This particular establishment shall remain nameless for a couple reasons. For one thing, we ain’t got much of anything good to say about the place. The food was just ayt and the service was horrible. As I was packing up my sammy to go, I joked with the girls that I should take the plate as a parting shot.
“Take the plate Marc, please . . take the plate,”
As per Ali’s orders, I stuck the plate in my Styrofoam container and made way for the door. Let the record state that Ali was the mastermind of this heist, and I . . the unwitting accomplice. I come from a broken home and I never had a male role model growing up. Unless you count Pat Riley.
I don’t know if this will become a thing, but in the event it does, we might try our luck with tacos again. I really don’t give a blessed fuck about the tacos, but I do loves me some Fiestaware.