…What is this. WHAT IS THIS?!
No. I will stay quiet no more. It’s bad enough this corpulent festering pool of a company sells a product that a good chunk of the American population thinks is Mexican food… but what the ever-loving FRAK is this?!
It was bad enough when they sold “tacos” and “gorditas” that resembled their namesakes as much as an ostrich resembles a chimp because both have eyes and legs. It’s bad enough that their processed meat-like product will clean you out like a bottle of Liquid Plumr. I understand that “authentic” ethnic food is a difficult thing to find in another country, and I’m well aware of the fact that most Chinese restaurants, for example, are not indicative of the cuisine of China.
But this isn’t even trying. This is like peeing on a stack of paper and calling art. This is like hiring Michael Bay to do Transformers all over again.
America, do you want a real Mexican breakfast? Do you?!
Here’s what you do.
First, party. I mean PARTY. Get some tequila. None of that fratboy, Spring Break, Jose Cuervo crap. I mean a bottle of 100% blue agave, the kind of liquor that God expels from his nipples when he’s aroused. You grab that bottle and you get a dozen of your best friends. You drink that bottle and play Vicente Fernandez until you all cry and remember loves lost and found. I don’t care if you understand the lyrics. You DRINK. And YOU CRY. You cry like a little bitch and you hug those friends like they’re your brothers and sisters and you stay up reminding each other that LIFE IS GOOD AND FRIENDS MATTER AND YOU TELL THOSE SONS OF BITCHES YOU LOVE THEM. And you do this outside, with the mosquitos and warm night air to keep you company. You let your body sweat tears of pain and heat!
Second, you stay up all night. You go through that bottle and maybe throw in a few beers. Not some artisan, microbrew beer, either. I mean Dos Equis. Tecate. And you drink that swill with lime and salt. Yes, lime and salt. Add some hot sauce for flavor and texture at your own peril.
Thirdly, you wait until the sun comes up. You have to move quickly, because you have work to do. Real work. Like my grandfather used to tell my mother and like he told me twenty years later, “You want to party? Fine, but you WORK IN THE MORNING.” You don’t skip out on your responsibilities. You’re an ADULT. So you drag your semi-drunk corpse out of the building and you find a Mexican restaurant, the kind of place health inspectors would cite on looks alone. No art on the walls. No big sombreros. Just waiters that understand your menu order and that’s it. If you speak Spanish, they’ll treat you like family.
Thirdly, order ANYTHING on the menu. It’s all tortillas, beans, cheese, and meat in varied ratios, but it’s your choice. You eat that meal with home-made salsa and tortillas that smell better than any lover you’ve ever had. You finish that plate and give a satisfied nod to the waiter. And you go on with the rest of your day like nothing happened.
Why? Because you’re AN ADULT HUMAN WHO GRABS LIFE BY THE SHORT AND CURLIES. You enjoy that breakfast, those enchiladas and that chorizo, like you’re about to be fraking executed by a firing squad. That meal is the greatest plate of food in your life.
And come next week, you repeat the process. THAT’S Mexican breakfast.