The older I get, the more nostalgic I feel.
That’s true when it comes to books and music and TV shows and movies. Food, too. If it’s a blast from the past, I’m almost certain to like it. So imagine my delight when, on my way home from Kentucky a couple of weekends ago, I stopped in Livingston and made a wonderful discovery. As usual on that leg of the journey, I was a little bit hungry and more than a little in need of a restroom.
Though most of the fast food restaurants on Highway 111 in Overton County are easy-in, easy-out, I almost always choose Taco Bell.
I’ve got nothing against the hamburger places, but there’s just something about budget-friendly Mexican food that can be eaten with one hand while the other’s on the steering wheel that appeals to me. And not because I grew up eating that way. When I was little, there was no such thing as fast-food Mexican. In fact, a sit-down, tell-the-waitress-your-order Mexican Restaurant was a rarity in 1950-something Little Rock, Arkansas.
When I was about four years old, my parents took my baby brother and me to a Mexican Restaurant that was dark and noisy and smoky (most restaurants in those days were smoky) and filled with unfamiliar smells. I have no memory of what food I ordered or—more likely—what food was ordered for me, but I do remember looking up at the ceiling and being momentarily struck dumb with terror. There, staring down at me, was a gigantic painting of a fierce Mexican bandito. He wore a broad-brimmed sombrero and a brightly colored poncho and held a six-shooter in each hand. His greasy moustache drooped all the way to his chin and his brown eyes radiated fury.
I screamed and screamed and screamed until my daddy picked me up and carried me outside and tried his best to calm me down. He told me it was just a picture. He told me the man on the ceiling looked mean but that he wasn’t really mean at all. He told me I was going to love the taco they were fixing for me in the kitchen.
But I wouldn’t go back in. Daddy had to tap on the window and motion my mother and Rusty outside, where we climbed into our turquoise-and-white Plymouth sedan and drove home without even one bite of supper.
Flash forward sixty-plus years. Mexican restaurants are my favorite, though I’ve never again been in one with a fierce bandito painted on the ceiling. I relish a sizzling plate of fajitas with rice and refried beans and guacamole salad on the side. But that’s not the kind of meal you can consume with one hand on the steering wheel.
That’s where Taco Bell comes in. As I pulled into a parking spot in Livingston, a big poster taped to the window caught my eye. It advertised a limited-time “Decades” celebration, though the prices– while reasonable–were definitely twenty-first century. From the 60s, a tostado (beans, cheese, lettuce and red sauce on a crispy flat tortilla). From the 70s, a green-sauce burrito (beans, cheese, onions and sauce in a soft tortilla), a Meximelt from the 80s (beef, three-cheese blend, pico de gallo in a small soft tortillia) and—from the 90s—a gordita supreme (beef, sour cream, lettuce, tomatoes, three-cheese blend wrapped in a large, thick soft tortilla). I’m proud to say that, to prepare for this column, I tried them all over the past couple of weeks, though not at the same time.
My favorite? By far, the gordita supreme, which I ate at a table inside the restaurant and not in the car, pretending all the while that the Mexican bandito from long, long ago was looking down on me with a big smile curling the ends of his greasy moustache.
(December 14, 2024)