Home Away from Home: The Bell

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Dara O’Briain in Manchester. The weekend away with my brother-in-law was a present from our respective wives (sisters to each other), and included two nights’ stay in a hotel, plus tickets to see the bald Irish funnyman. The weekend was a golden opportunity for both of us, if only for the fact that we were going to SLEEP (an event that is all-to-often curtailed by his 3 young boys and my 2 young daughters). Of course there were many other things to do as well: FA Cup Final, Avengers in the cinema, beer. So, with all of the culture and buzz of a big city that Manchester had to offer, I feel obliged to report that the thing I was most excited about was being able to visit one of only three Taco Bells in the UK.

When I first visited the UK in 1992, there were 5 Taco Bells in London alone. Every time we visited the Capital (which was often during that year abroad), we either ate there or at Pizza Hut, and sometimes at both. Even at 21 years old, we were under no illusion that either of these places represented fine American dining, or that they demonstrated any kind of refinement in our palettes. But when you’re eating the canteen version of British food, which is already as soggy and as gravy-laden as British food is, there was something so – comforting – about visiting a familiar place to eat, even if it meant dealing with the intestinal consequences for days after.

And, if I’m totally honest, I fucking LOVE Taco Bell. I can hear my foodie friends' jaws dropping in disgust. Yes, I know what’s in it. I know it’s the shit on the bottom of the boot of pond scum at the bottom of the lake in even the lowest valley of the American fast food pecking order. I know that a 99c taco is that cheap for a reason, and I’m pretty sure they’re playing fast and free with the term ‘beef’. But I still love it. It’s the first place I go to when I land back home. My dad no longer meets me at SeaTac, he meets me at the Taco Bell on the corner of 188th and International Blvd. I ate it every day during my summer as a ‘Landscape Hydration Engineer’ (I fixed sprinkler heads at the local mall), and could eat it most days still if I had the chance. But I don’t have the chance, really - because by the time I returned to the UK in 1996, Taco Bell had disappeared, even from London.

So I waited. And waited. I campaigned to Taco Bell International to bring it back to the UK. I enquired about a franchise. I kept my burrito-loving ears to the ground, living in hope of a triumphant return. I knew it would eventually be back, of course. Subway had come over and was doing well. I no longer had to have the pilot dad of a friend sneak tortillas into the country; I could buy them at the shop. When I served nachos at parties, the beans weren't mistaken for peanut butter or dog food. People were becoming more aware of good Mexican food, so it was only a matter of time before the cheap-and-nasty version of it popped up its Chiuaua-shaped head, too. Sure enough, in the summer of 2010, Taco Bell UK re-opened its methane-producing kitchens on UK soil just the other side of London.

Of course, by that time I’d moved back to Aber, which meant a 6-hour drive to The Border. Plans were made and pilgrimages plotted. Unfortunately, every time I prepared to make the run, something got in my way. Things like the birth of a child, or a car crash, or Christmas…

So you can imagine my joy when I actually arrived in Manchester’s Arndale Centre, looking square-on at the Purple and Yellow cloche that would signal an end to both my taco bell drought and any hope of having a healthy gut. I was ready. I’d taken the top bunk and worn loose jeans for a reason. My moment had come, and I would not be denied. I approached, more patiently than I thought would be possible as the ill-informed track-suited British public tried to make sense of the alien menu. The words stumbled out of my mouth in sheer anticipation as I ordered the same thing I always order in the States: two tacos, two bean burritos and a refillable drink. I handed over my coins, looking around to see if anyone could tell how ridiculously giddy I was to be paying for my whole meal in loose change. I filled up my drink, waited for my number to be called. Finally, I heard those magical numbers: 119. One. One. Nine. I approached the counter and recognised the familiar wrapping of my tacos and burritos. I welled up, and just looked at the spoils of my efforts. I looked to Stuart with what must have been the most pathetic, imploring eyes, begging to be mercifully released from the shackles of social convention. ‘Go ahead,’ he said as he waited for his order to be called. ‘I’ll catch up.’ I found a table. I sat down. I was home.

And you know what? It wasn’t bad. I mean, it wasn’t Nirvana or anything. I mean come on, it’s just Taco Bell.