FourthMeal, FifthMeal, SixthMeal…

I suppose it’s a sad enough commentary on the state of our current culture that, as I prepare to begin this article by stating that I was recently out for a “FourthMeal” run, I realize there is absolutely no need to explain exactly what “FourthMeal” is. Congratulations, Taco Bell – all of those billions of dollars spent on that ridiculous advertising campaign were dollars well-spent; your nasty little slogan is now part of our common vocabulary.

I also wanted to say this: I think the “FourthMeal” branding is incredibly presumptuous. I resent the fact that Taco Bell assumes they know me well enough to make the statement, stamped with a registered trademark no less, that this is my fourth meal of the day. It might only be my third meal of the day, which would explain why I’m running out for fast food at 11:45 PM. Maybe I skipped dinner, and that’s why I’m so desperately hungry that I will actually drive to the nearest Taco Bell and actually order, pay for, and eat their pseudo-Mexi-slop. For that matter, maybe this is my ninth meal of the day. Perhaps I’m shooting for a personal record.

I am somewhat shocked that, these days, nearly every single item available for purchase at Taco Bell comes with a taco on the side. You want a quesadilla combo? That comes with a taco. You want a cheesy bean burrito combo? That, too, comes with a taco. You want a family-size combo-pack of 15 tacos? Here, have a taco with that.

When the time comes for the helpful sales associate to process your order, they are required by Federal Law to ask you, “Would you like a hard or soft taco with that?” This is where I get a bit antsy, as a consumer. I’ve already sat in line at the drive-thru and fearfully, anxiously weighed my menu options for a solid 15 minutes – not because I wanted to wait that long, but because that’s how long it took for this well-oiled, “fast”-food machine to process the order of the guy in front of me. By this point in the chronology of events, I’ve already come to several food-based crossroads, and I’ve moved on: I know which of the fifteen combo meals I want, I know which beverage (regular or diet) I would like to accompany that combo, I know whether I will go with steak, chicken, or beef in my “Supreme” (not “Baja”) Gordita (not Chalupa), I know what size I want, and I know which sauces I want on top of it all.

Do you really need to pressure with this “hard-or-soft-taco” decision now?!

Does it really even matter? We’re talking about the exact same internal contents in either case: some ground beef, a sprinkling of lettuce, a small ration of finely diced tomatoes, exactly seven cheese shavings, and a tiny plop of sour cream (yes, the standard Taco Bell unit of measure for sour cream is indeed the “plop” – look it up). The only difference between the hard or soft taco, then, is the flexibility of the wrapper around the taco-y center. Will it be brittle and dry, or will it be soft and moist? Either way, is it really going to drastically impact the overall enjoyment I will derive from the combo meal as a whole? I strongly doubt it. Do I intend to do anything with this edible taco wrapper that may or may not result in personal injury, based on its durability or texture? Perhaps, but not likely.

So I like to let the helpful sales associate choose for me. That’s one less thing they can screw up (although, I will not be terribly surprised if this one day happens to me). “Hard or soft taco?” “It’s your call, man.” I’m pretty easy going when it comes to my fast-food, precisely because it is just that: fast-food. This isn’t a formal outing, there are no culinary critics involved, and none of the menu items include fancy French sounds (such as words ending in -eaux, or words beginning with D’– or L’-). I didn’t put on a coat and tie for the occasion, nor did I bring a vintage bottle of cabinet reserve to accompany my “FourthMeal”.

On the contrary, I pre-resigned myself to ordering food from a place that actually spent marketing dollars on the concept of a late-night munchie-run. I fully expect the food-product that gets handed to me in a plastic bag through a tiny glass window by a minimum wage associate named “Chip” – food-product that is, I remind you, accompanied by paper-towel napkins and occasionally packaged in a cardboard box – to be heavy on functionality, and light on aesthetics. Put simply: I expect to cram this crap down my gullet in order to quiet the growl in my belly, not to experience taste-bud nirvana.

Which is why I will never understand those people who treat the drive-thru encounter as though it were akin to dining out at the Olive Garden. You know the type: the person who drives up to the little metal ordering-box and asks for the Big Hombre combo (all 38 pieces), grande-sizes the hell out of it, but then demands to have the tomatoes on the side, the sour cream swapped out for ranch dressing, nacho cheese instead of the pepper-jack, no “zowie” sauce, and two empty tortilla shells instead of the baggie of chips.

To this individual, I calmly say: please consider your %$!!@%$! surroundings and do a much-needed reality check. The franchise from which you are currently ordering your late-night sustenance has three large tubs in the back storage area, filled with ground meat-product, cheese-product, and some kind of damp “veggie” mix. The 74 menu items you see are simply a series of variations made up of ingredients drawn from these three tubs, rearranged in inventive ways for marketing purposes. You should consider yourself lucky that they don’t just dump the whole sloppy mess straight into the plastic bag, and hand it over to you with a spork and a friendly “good luck, Señor.”

Now… If you’ll pardon me, I need to go back to Taco Bell and complain. They put jalapeño sauce on my quesadilla and forgot to add fresh onions, again.

-Jacob Michael

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