Written by: Brandon Doriot
“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).”
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.
READ THE REST OF BRANDON’S REVIEW BY VISITING AT TOLEDO CITY PAPER