2197 W. Broad St.
706-548-7160
2075 Barnett Shoals Rd.
706-543-5355
By STEPHANIE JACKSON
We all have our favorite foods. We have that food that makes us happy, even if it’s done badly.
So it’s not that surprising that so many of us order the same thing no matter where we go. For me, that food is a chicken quesadilla. It’s a safe bet that no matter what Mexican restaurant I go to, that’s what I’ll be ordering.
But let’s face facts. I’m a college student, I’m poor and I’m overloaded with work. I don’t do a whole lot of dine-in ordering.
That’s why my quesadilla favorite often take the form of Taco Bell combo number seven: a chicken quesadilla, taco and large drink. Add in some nachos for a side dish, and I’ve got my favorite meal in fast food form, all for less than $6.
Make all the jokes you want about quality, but I love Taco Bell. It’s not just about price; I love the whole experience. I get a kind of pride in spending fewer than five minutes to pick up food on a study break. I enjoy the loud, argumentative cooks and cashiers at my local Taco Bell – they always fill you in and let you join the argument.
The place isn’t caught up in itself. Managers don’t care if the drive thru guy calls a lady “sweetie,” and for some reason, not even my feminist side can convince me that I’m no okay with a well-placed “honey” on my way past the window.
To be honest, if you didn’t know you had a $2 quesadilla in your hands, you wouldn’t guess. No, there’s nothing fresh about it, but all those herbs and spices an upscale place might use are covered in the extra tangy jalapeno sauce slathered over the bits of chicken. I’ve never had a Taco Bell quesadilla that wasn’t cooked to the perfect crunchy-soft balance, and believe me, I’ve had a lot.
It’s a pajamas at 1 a.m. place, and in this college town, we’ve all been there a time or two well past our bed times.
But I know this isn’t a real quesadilla. Its not overstuffed with real white meat chicken and covered in melted Monterrey jack cheese. It’s not so thick that I have to use a knife and some amount of force to cut it. It isn’t a Mexicali quesadilla.
On the nights that I don’t wind up in my pajamas, hunched over my computer, writing another paper, I might just make it out to Mexicali with a few friends and indulge in some margaritas with my quesadilla.
The place is loud. It’s crowded. It takes awhile to get you food. Which makes it the perfect place to sit around with friends, yell across the table, and share a big bowl of somewhat overpriced but utterly delicious cheese dip.
It’s a bit of a splurge. The same meal (in title) costs just under $12 at Mexicali. And no one there winkingly calls me “honey.”
But it’s a good time, and a good quesadilla, I must admit. Where the Taco Bell meal is half-gone by the time I make the one mile trip back home, the Mexicali monster normally takes a good portion of the evening, and I hardly finish it all.
Days later, I won’t be craving Mexicali again. I won’t be thinking that I should call ahead and place an order so I can pick it up in 30 minutes when I finish that last chapter in my readings. I’ll be throwing on the filp-flops, grabbing the change jar and heading back to see my boisterous friends at the drive thru.
I know it’s not the gourmet example of fine Mexican cooking. I know it’s not even comparable to an Americanized Mexican joint. But it’s the one taste I crave when I want my favorite meal. That spice from a tube, meat from a jar goodness that will kill me in the end, is keeping me going now.
