What Was I Thinking

This afternoon, my wife called me. She asked if I had any money. That’s never a good sign. Especially when my answer was, “Seven dollars”. I knew the context of the conversation was going to be centered around dinner.

Apparently, she had done some preliminary work, because my spouse noted that for seven dollars, I could acquire 14 tacos at Jack in the Box. This I knew because the name of my youngest was invoked followed by the information that she was ready for the aforementioned delicacy.
Great. I am not a huge fan of the Box; in 30 weeks of Chinese school, I only resorted to J-n-the-B twice. So to receive the mission to actually go there to procure eats was somewhat disappointing. But the thought of the Jack in the Box Taco began to intrigue me.

This I must admit; though repulsive to look at, that wallet of leathery corn tortilla and greasy meat plus who-knows-what carries a certain allure.

I remember my first Jack in the Box taco. We were on the way home from our neighbor’s little league game and for reasons I still don’t understand, we stopped in at the Box for a quick dinner/snack. I remember standing in the store, at the corner of Palmer and 21st street. The cold fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the paper-hatted staff leaping to our order like a cheery little army. The taste of the taco was so different, as was the entire experience. I wasn’t the taco connoisseur then that I am today, but that was a singular event in my development.

I got to the Alvin restaurant this evening and ordered the fourteen tacos. The vapid staff oozed over to the taco station and fulfilled my order. Shuffling to the front, the girl limply put the two bags on the counter. I counted the order and found that she had satisfied it correctly. I congratulated her for her excellent work, and I got a smile in return. That shocked me. I wasn’t aware that anyone in that establishment knew how.

On my return to the car, I plopped the bags in the floorboard of the passenger side, well aware of the grease content of the cargo. Surely, had the bags of tacos sat on the seat the entire ten-minute trip home, I would have smelled the entrée for several days. However, the aroma that filled the car on the way home was intoxicating. I could barely control my salivary glands. They threatened to drown me. Waves of taco scent washed over me as I struggled to control the vehicle on the way back to my starving family.

On arriving home, the banquet was poured out on the kitchen counter. One of the tacos slipped the bonds of its paper envelope and I pounced on it like a duck on a junebug. I didn’t even get a plate. A napkin sufficed as I tore into the treat. I crouched at the corner of the coffee table and informed the girls that the tacos were here.

I ate five of them and by the time the dust and tortilla shards had settled, I could have eaten five more. As good as they taste though, I find they lack substance. I can’t identify one or more of the internal workings of these creatures either, but I maintain that there is a secret ingredient that makes the eater want more. And more. Yes, and more.

My hope is that you, gentle reader, have not altered your opinion of me, knowing the weakness I have for something as far from a real taco as one can get. I mean, a food reviewer with my credentials (weight, mainly) can’t eschew certain cuisine just because of where it came from. Please forgive me my apparent lapse.

It could be Secret Sauce. You think?