The Taste of Democracy
An ode to Taco Bell's Burrito Supreme
No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me.
— Marcel Proust on his famous madeleine, In Search of Lost Time (1913-27)
A Taco Bell Burrito Supreme isn’t exactly what one would call Mexican cuisine. The basic ingredients are familiar enough: seasoned beef, refried beans, red sauce, lettuce, cheddar cheese, diced onions, tomatoes, and sour cream, all wrapped in a tortilla. But it’s more accurate to call this an American version of Mexican food—an assimilated version, which is to say a hybrid version. For the purist, that’s a form of degradation
(at least get Chipotle!), but it’s incontestable that a Burrito Supreme from Taco Bell will necessarily lack the nuances of authentic Mexican food, however defined. In large measure, that’s because Taco Bell is an American fast food restaurant. As such, what it sells is built for speed, simplicity, and cost-effectiveness (a Burrito Supreme costs about $3.50). The Burrito Supreme is a form of economic and cultural negotiation designed to leverage convenience for the buyer and profit for the seller, which is to say the franchisee of a large multinational corporation— in this case Yum!, which also owns Pizza Hut and the chain formerly known as Kentucky Fried Chicken. You can guess why.
I’ve been eating Burrito Supremes for almost a half-century. As an adolescent, I would ride my bike a couple of miles with my buddies for the perfect meal of two tacos, a Burrito Supreme, and a large soda. Then we’d go a few doors down to Dunkin’ Donuts, where I’d have a chocolate coconut doughnut for dessert. (My palate has become more refined, but I’ve never savored a meal more.) The ritual was one of the great joys of my childhood, one that continued into the summers of my college years when the means of transportation were cars rather than bikes. When I became a husband, father, and homeowner, I began making periodic visits to a Taco Bell that was again about two miles from my house, taking various combinations of my children. I continue to do so to this day.
I love Burrito Supremes. At this point, they’re something of a guilty pleasure, because I know they’re not especially good for my health. I’m also aware that they’re viewed as sources of suspicion ranging from cultural appropriation (a concept I largely reject in what has long been an amalgamated nation) to economic exploitation (real enough but hardly limited to Taco Bell, which creates jobs and offers comfort food to people who might be hard pressed to find either elsewhere).
There are three reasons why I cherish them so. One is the taste—for which, of course, there’s no accounting. The second, as I’ve already indicated, is that they’re repositories of memory. The third is their reliability: I know that I can go into any one of almost 8000 Taco Bell locations and get a Burrito Supreme that tastes exactly like the ones I had as a kid, and indeed have done so from New York to Minnesota. While fast food chains are sometimes regarded as a blight on the national landscape, I regard them as an American triumph—a shared national experience invented and made possible by common law, common language, common currency (literal and figurative), and a built infrastructure that stitches together a continent of variegated landscapes and brings together a diverse people. Genius.
When I eat a Burrito Supreme, I’m happy to be an American.
What’s the flavor of your history? Leave a comment.
During my growing-up years on Boston’s North Shore, I’d never heard of Taco Bell. The chain had not yet made its way to our neck o’ the woods.
A taste of childhood remains—well, will remain, until next weekend—the chop suey sandwich sold by Salem Lowe. Unlike Taco Bell, with 8000 franchised locations, Salem Lowe comprises exactly one shop. Located in a tiny, run-down seaside amusement park called Salem Willows—between E.W. Hobbs (selling popcorn and roasted peanuts since in 1897) and the long-closed Fun House ride—Salem Lowe has sold Chinese and American food for over a century. It closes its doors next weekend.
Among the pepper steak, onion steak, and tender steak with cheese sandwiches, the menu has always included the chicken chop suey sandwich. Picture a slightly gelatinous blob of cooked bean sprouts and small cubes of chicken ladled onto a white Nissen hamburger roll and wrapped in paper. Best to eat it with a fork. Back in 2009 the price was $1.76. Now it’s somewhere around $2.50.
But really, the sandwich is priceless. Like Proust’s madeleine, and your burrito supreme, it brings back memories. Of long-ago summer nights with my late father, tucking into a chop suey sandwich while looking out from small cove to the Atlantic Ocean. Then buying a bag of roasted peanuts from E.W. Hobbs and walking the pier, talking to folks casting for flounder and mackerel and seeing the harbor tour boat tied up alongside. Hearing stories of my father’s childhood, when he and his family would come by streetcar to Salem Willows to escape the heat of downtown Peabody. And, if finances permitted, to enjoy a chop suey sandwich from Salem Lowe and stare out at the sea.
I miss my father. And I’ll miss Salem Lowe. Not because it makes anybody’s “best of” lists among North Shore restaurants. But because that unique offering, the chop suey sandwich, brings back my dad, and my younger me, and those warm summer nights by the sea.
The flavor of my history. Hmmm. I'm soon to be 75, but I remember being 5 as if it were yesterday. When I was a kid, we left NYC for Levittown, but visited 106 Pinehurst Ave., Apt. C 35, my Mom's Aunt Katherine's, every chance we could. Somehow, whatever Aunt Katherine made for me to eat, I loved and remember. Even now, seven decades later, when I put grape jelly and cream cheese on top of a Saltine cracker, close my eyes, and eat it, I'm immediately transformed back to our Washington Heights apartment and Aunt Katherine's kitchen table.