I Tried the Quesalupa in the Name of Love

Taco Bell is truly for lovers.

On Valentine’s Day, I tried the Quesalupa.

Before you make an ugly face and start bitching about how stupid of a holiday Valentine’s Day is, let me remind you that all holidays are stupid, and life is hard. So, give a shit about something that actually matters and spare everyone your eye roll.

Valentine’s Day is an opportunity to make your significant other’s inner child smile. That 10-year-old who so desperately wanted a carnation dropped off at his or her desk but never got one. The kid that rummaged through their candy bag while on the toilet at home (because they never felt comfortable using the bathroom at school; severe anxiety), only to find nothin’ special, no love letter, no larger than usual candy bar.

In order for my boyfriend, Mike, to convince me that lunch at Taco Bell was a worthwhile Valentine’s Day activity, we watched a couple of review videos. Watching a man eat fast food, or any food for that matter, while speaking about it in analytical terms is ordinarily one of the most disgusting things you can ask me to endure. Hence, I’m writing a crappy comic essay about the experience and sparing you the beans stuck in my teeth.

One guy said the Quesalupa was soggy, limp, and underwhelming.

The other guy said it was perfectly crispy, a “must try.”

Whoever said pot makes you lazy has obviously never seen a stoned girl after she’s watched a snack review channel on YouTube.

A young woman took our order. Mike got the beef Quesalupa combo, surprising me with his choice of Baja Blast to drink. He’s fun and unpredictable like that. I ordered the bean Quesalupa. We were being a little too cute at the counter, maybe. I’m needy and affectionate, especially when I’m stoned on a holiday celebrating L-O-V-E while being totally in love.

Was it a Valentine’s Day conspiracy, punishing the merrily coupled? Or could it simply have been an honest mistake? I’ll never know, because the young woman’s shift ended, and the manager couldn’t wrap his head around it.

They corrected their mistake and gave me a free bean burrito on the house. Here’s a tip, there is such a thing as too many beans, but there is no such thing as too much cheese.

Now, the verdict. The Quesalupa was, in the words of my father:

Full disclosure, it wasn’t crispy. Don’t go there expecting crispy, even if you ask for extra crispy. It’s more like a soggy, savory, Pillsbury toaster strudel filled with cheese—which is, without a doubt, delicious.

We sat in the restaurant for a while, basking in the afterglow of our Quesalupas. Wanting more and knowing it was a bad idea, we sated ourselves by sucking the remaining hot sauce out of our packets. Mike waxed philosophical, explaining that the Quesalupa was simply a play on the usual suspects of Taco Bell ingredients—it won’t blow your mind… it’s just another delicious way of enjoying something that’s already delicious.

Lately, I’ve been dealing with this acute awareness that every day I spend alive is another day bringing me closer to my death and/or the death of everyone I know and love. I get a grip on it by staying as present as possible. So as we sat there, I recognized that I was in the midst of an experience that would turn into a forever memory. I’d remember that I don’t like Baja Blast, that I don’t miss bacon, that a combo includes a taco and a drink, and that Mike is the most fun.

Danielle Leibowitz is a writer and artist who cracks herself up in Los Angeles.
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