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| The "T" stands for tacos |
I've really enjoyed having a bit of story time mixed in with the random references and football allusions of other daily posts to the blog. So, as much as is possible, I'm going to keep this Tuesday train a-going. Not sure who will be contributing from week to week, nor what the topics will be, exactly. But, hopefully, they'll be a fun exercise in literary diversions. And, you know, chicks, man. They love the words.
Unfortunately, my plans for writing today's entry never crawled out of the pupal (gross) stage. I don't know if it was the hours of work time spent staring at contract language (grosser), our constantly inhumane president (grossest), or the universal letdown of the great Szechuan sauce-pocalypse (grossly incompetent), but I couldn't shave pencil-shaving one. Bad writer! BAD!!!
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| Thanks Calvin, you're onto something. |
However, fear not, gentle readers! I've reached back into the vaults to provide a personal fave for your Tuesday viewing pleasure.
If you aren't aware, blog-plugger and all around taco talker Dillon Gentry and I used to fill the pages of the internet with our musings on Mexican food consumed. It was sort of the Pre-TBW, which so you know, is likely the Pre-Something else (I dunno, TacoboutDevilWorship? TacoboutTortReform?). No blog is forever, kids. The world is not made for those cursed with self-awareness.
Man, somber.
Anywho, the story below is something Dillon contributed to our prior incarnation, and for whatever reason, it stuck in my head and makes me laugh whenever I remember it. Enjoy the trip down memory lane. I'll try to get back on the horse and get the train going again in a day or two. And perhaps my metaphorical transports won't collide in a spectacularly horrific manner. Fingers crossed!
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| Wow, table service! |
Contributor
Years ago I made my living slinging drinks at various bars, taverns and restaurants. During a brief stint at one such establishment I got stuck on the Tuesday morning shift, where my duties consisted of sweeping the floors, pouring Hamm's for 80 year old men, and preparing the taco meat for Taco Tuesday.
I was given no instructions or recipe to follow, and had no idea how to make taco meat without some kind of pre-packaged seasoning. There was a shelf in the kitchen with about ten giant bins of different of spices, and I was simply told to use whatever I wanted so long as it had some flavor.
Each week two chubs (that's a 5 pound log of cheap ground beef in shrink-wrapped plastic) were delivered. I would load them into a pot, fire up the burner and begin what I considered to be a weekly experiment. I threw in handfuls of cayenne pepper, granulated onion, and pepper one week. The next week it might be cumin, garlic powder, and oregano. It went on like this for over a month. The formula was never the same, and I rarely sampled my creation except to make sure it was still edible. I left it up to the world to decide for themselves how they felt about my weekly masterpieces.
What is art? What is tacos? Who can say?
Besides, I clocked out everyday before the first taco was served. What did I care?
Then something weird happened. I took a Tuesday off, and in my absence, all the regulars had complained about my substitute.
They loved my tacos.
I was flattered, and as you can imagine, completely surprised. This of course, took all the fun out of it; it was serious business and the pressure was on now. For my next batch of taco meat I gave it everything I had. The pot roared with bubbling grease and the spices rose in a fiery plume high into the air. When I was finished I wiped my sweaty brow and presented the world's finest taco meat. Call it my magnum opus; yet sadly it would be my final work.
The following week I was fired with no explanation. I found out later the manager gave me the boot to re-hire one of her friends. I didn't really care. Overall, the job totally sucked.
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