I am a simple man. Oh sure, I can put on airs and extol the virtues of foie gras or a properly executed bordelaise, but that’s not really me. Truth be told, if the police ever stumbled upon the pile of cadavers I’ve got locked away in our crawlspace and I had to choose one last meal, it would be a taco. Not any old taco, mind you. The taco of which I speak is special, holding an almost magical quality over me for the last 20 years. No, the taco befitting my last meal would be a Dave’s taco.
I find this picture oddly arousing
A dave’s taco is simple: tortilla, meat, sauce. I could bore you with details about the grilled tortilla, or the oyster sauce marinated tri-tip, but honestly you could get that anywhere. The thing that separates a Dave’s taco from the rest of the taco world is the sauce. The sauce is good. Really fucking good. Smack yo momma good. Rich, orange and spicier than a baboon’s ass on the Fourth of July, the sauce elevates the taco into a symphony of heat and flavor. I don’t usually eat garbage, but when I see all the plates thrown out at Dave’s garbage can, I actually consider diving in there and licking plates clean. I’d tell you what’s in the sauce to make it so special, but I have no idea. Dave won’t tell me, and I am not sure biochemists could break down all the ingredients involved.
So every time I am in Bakersfield, I treat myself to a taco orgy, consuming at least eight at each sitting. Dave still knows my name, despite the fact that I once went 10 years without eating there. And when I am done with my bender, my face and fingers still dripping with sauce, I wonder, “When will I be able to eat here again?”
I started thinking the other day about the things I would do if it meant I got to eat at Dave’s. For your enjoyment, here is what I came up with:
I would become one of those deodorant testers who stick their nose in other people’s armpits.
I would wear the Hot Dog On A Stick uniform in public.
I would go to Bakersfield, even in summer!
For a gallon of the sauce, I would watch a movie narrated by Bjork while eating popcorn seasoned with salmon salt.
If Dave opened up a delivery service, I would wear crotchless chaps in a mosquito breeding tent.
For a “Tacos of the Week” basket, I would use a Q-Tip laced with whale diarrhea.
If you gave me the recipe for Dave’s sauce, I would wash your back. If you made it for me, I would wash your front. (Thanks Fletch, for that one!)
Lastly, if you could somehow convince Dave to move into our guest bedroom (without a weapon and a few lengths of rope, which turned out to be not such a good idea) I would do it all, on national TV, on Superbowl Sunday. Naked. They are that good.
Speaking of tacos, it’s lunchtime here, and I gotta start moseying…
Tags: eating
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[...] shut down from overeating and spice poisoning. (If you want to see how good I think they are, check this post out.) I suggest a minimum of eight, although if you want bonus points (pounds) you can easily [...]