A great nostalgia piece showed up in Salon today about Taco Bell & childhood. We’ll be the first to admit we had an intense pre-teen love for the Taco Supreme and the Enchirito as well:
They were good. Or, at least, I remember them that way, in defiance of my gastronomic superego’s insistence that Taco Bell food is a dismal simulacrum of the real thing. That’s the perversity of memory: No matter how sophisticated my palette has grown, nor how politicized it has become, I still feel a nostalgic fondness for Taco Bell tacos, triggered by sense memories of that first bite, when the shell would disintegrate into a heap of tortilla shards and meat on the orange wrapping paper that doubled as a tray. The sublimity of that crunch, the sensuous contrast between brittle, ultra-thin shell (worlds away from the chewy, chamois softness of the griddle-warmed tortillas served by Tijuana taquerias) and moist, spicy-sweet meat: Taco Bell tacos combined the delights of Pringles chips and sloppy Joes. For a kid in the late ‘60s and ‘70s, what could be better?
Remembrance of tacos past [Salon]