The day was gloopy, due to clouds. What Mr. Harrison would could call, “…a mollusk, stained with teeth and oil.” Still hot enough we all shuffled in trajectories of shade. I won a stuffed gerbil the size of a Subaru tire for my daughter. Glow. After the carnie game, fatigue set in: time for nachos. We went to the DFW essay-area: “…bright-yellow popcorn that stinks of salt; onion rings as big as leis. There are towering plates of “Curl Fries,” which are pubic-hair-shaped and make people’s fingers shine in the sun.”
I went for nachos. $5 at the Midway (would be $7.50 at a pro ballpark, $2 even at a middle school basketball game).
The nachos were round corn chips, Ricos cheese (obviously—a key cog in nachos history to surely be addressed in a later post), pickled jalapeno slices. I first ate about three nachos. Then flung four dashes Frank’s hot sauce, as is my way. Then finished the pile.
RANKING: 6 of 10 Triangles.
But why 6?
This is not a restaurant pile of nachos, okay? This is not a home pile. This is not a gourmet pile. Or a Sideways pile. But the 6 is earned because this is a legacy pile. The type of chip, the exact polymer-consistency and hue of cheese: all of these gob of nacho history. Even the clear plastic tray (most likely Carnival Kings, out of Staten Island), one large cubicle for the chips, one smaller Jacuzzi for the Ricos. Even the jalapeno were tossed onto the cheese with a certain eloquence, as if feeding swans a few crusts of bread, a sun-dappled park, etc. We know what we are getting, which is more than you can say for the majority of these strutting and fretting days. When I buy a hammer, I want a hammer. I want to feel its heft in my hand. When I drive by a cow, I want to tell everyone in the car, “There’s a cow.” And I want the passengers to look up briefly and nod their heads and think, cow. And these nachos delivered exactly like state fair/school activities/swimming pool concession stand nachos. They had no flaws worth noticing (maybe 2% over-salty, but that’s a quibble). In the existential words of all oblivious athletes, athletic coaches, and sports announcers in the mega-verse, I proclaim: “It is what it is.”
A 6 rating and very tasty.