We’ve all been here. It’s 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, and we’re in a car full of glossy-eyed party goers who crave the perfect nightcap to a wild evening out: Taco Bell.
We reach the drive thru and begin barking out a food order that would feed most third-world countries. Then we get home, devour our Crunch Wrap Supremes, chase them down with fire-hot liquid cheese sauce and pass out while wheezing our way to bed.
That’s the easy part. The real challenge is doing it when you’re completely sober at 9 in the morning.
Welp, challenge accepted.
The first thing we notice when we stroll into a local Taco Bell on a recent Sunday morning is how delicious all the breakfast items look in their pictures: bubbling cheese, crispy bacon, golden brown hash browns. Heck, even the infamous Waffle Taco looks edible.
We begin to order a laundry list of items when the Taco Bell employee cuts us off. She informs us that they only have enough cooked eggs for one item and that we’d have to wait 17 minutes for them to make more. This begs two questions: 1.) Why are they running out of eggs during the only time they need to have eggs and 2.) Who takes 17 minutes to cook eggs? Do they have constipated chickens in the back straining to lay them? Is there some sort of “egg whisperer” who usually comes in to help the chickens feel more relaxed but accidentally overslept this morning?
Taking this disappointing news in stride, we ask the employee for her recommendation. She tells us to get the Grande Scrambler Burrito with sausage and a side order of Cinnabon Delights. We oblige, and within five minutes the food is served.
We unwrap our breakfast like it’s Christmas morning and take a few bites. The first thing we notice is how closely the actual food resembles the pictures on the menu – minus the bubbling cheese, the crispiness, the golden coloring… or any coloring at all, really.
Halfway through the burrito we begin to feel light headed. For a second we think, “Maybe these are ‘special’ burritos,” but then our hearts start pounding, and we quickly realize it’s the 195 mg of cholesterol kicking in. We look over at the Taco Bell employee, who stares back at us with a grin that seems to say, “You’re never making it out of here alive, suckers.”
Ten minutes later we’re still struggling through our breakfast like Michael Phelps trying to do the breast stroke in a mud bath. We take a bite of our Cinnabon Delights, which look more like chicken nugget rejects, and have a scholarly debate about what’s inside of them. Is it frosting? Is it cream? Is it crystalized Red Bull? Why are we hallucinating?
Just when we think it can’t get any worse, our stomachs begin to spasm. At first it feels like butterflies, like when you first fall in love. But then the spasms become more violent… and we discover that you don’t need to be pregnant to get morning sickness. Just a giant dose of T-Bell.
We head home wondering if getting that Waffle Taco would have been as painful. We do know that we’re never coming back — until next Saturday at 2 a.m.