To Go

“Glen W. Bell Jr., an entrepreneur best known as the founder of the Taco Bell chain, has died. He was 86. Bell died Sunday at his home in Rancho Santa Fe, according to a statement posted Monday on the Taco Bell Web site.

The Irvine-based company did not release a cause of death.” --AP

What, is that last supposed to keep us guessing? I’ll take binge drinking for a thousand, Alex.

Well, well, well, 86 years old. Not bad. And I think we can be fairly certain where he chose not to eat.

I never knew his name, but surely Glen was a patron saint of all stoners. The alchemist of the slimy green and red sauce crowning the SPLAT of fat slapped inside the hard shell taco. Some days, te just quiero’d it, you know? and nothing else would do. I grew up on North American fast food, and would have eaten fried hamster tongues so long as they swam in thousand island dressing. My first, relatively greaseless taco south of the border was a revelation. “Can I get some mayo?” Educating this palate was every teacher’s nightmare.

But, eventually, when I became a woman, I put away childish things like Der Weinerschnitzel and Pup and Taco. Still, sometimes, yo quiero the taste of my youth and head for The Bell on south Lake Street. A burrito stuffed with ground brown stuff, and green and yellow vegetable and cheese substitutes. “Transfat, my good man!” I shout to the pimply party at the window, “And don’t be stingy, baby.”

So here’s to you, Glen. I understand you were a pretty nice guy and gave lots of money to charity. Glad I was able to do my part and have the thighs to prove it.

No matter how rich you may be, there are only so many sips in the straw. And you were right. Metaphorically speaking, we all want fries with that.