As a kid, I loved going to the local Long John Silver's restaurant. It wasn't for the food as much as it was for the treasure. There was a treasure chest filled with toys for kids to take home. "Only one per child," my mother would remind me. It wasn't until recently that I had the same excitement for eating fast-food seafood.
Long John's aside, seafood in fast-food restaurants looks like this: []. That's a fried fish patty. You commonly know it as the McDonald's filet 'o fish. In the Greek language, "philo" (sounds like "filet o") means love. I don't think any amount of love could be involved with a square hunk of fried seafood.
Fast-food seafood has changed. Beckoning to me, as I sat at the stop light, were these simple words; "Try Our New Pacific Shrimp Taco." "Could it be," I thought, "Taco Bell has finally reached the echelon of the perfect fast food meal?" Then the fear and dread overcame me. "Sure, fast-food shrimp equals food-poisoning at its worst. At best, it will be a soft taco with a few of those little salad shrimp." I drove on, dismissing the idea as nothing more than an attempt to make money from land-locked people who couldn't tell a shrimp from a king prawn.
Last night, I was driving home as the 10 p.m. hour neared. I was hungry. A simple drive-thru sandwich would suffice. But before I knew it, I was pulling into the Taco Bell drive-thru. Was it fate that called me here? Had I only missed the Rally's drive-thru?
"Can you please wait a moment?" came the voice from drive-thru box. "Perfect Chris. Relax. Breathe. Order a chicken soft taco and a drink. No problem. You can do this."
"Sorry about the wait. Can I take your order?"
"I'll take a shrimp taco and a small Sierra Mist," I blurted out. "That'll be $4.37, please drive around."
There it was. I'd committed to it. It was too late to change my order. What if I just drove on without paying or getting the food? "But I can't," I said aloud, "I'm really freaking hungry."
Sitting at the drive-thru window, I saw a glimmer of hope, a ray of sunshine, a beacon of...you get the idea. The sign on the side of the building read "Each Taco has Six Grilled Marinated Shrimp." Money was exchanged and I was handed my drink and a little bag.
In a manner typically associated with the Twilight Zone, I found myself sitting at the same stop light as before, this time unwrapping my taco.
I looked into the little wax-paper taco folder and eyed one of the shrimp. "Holy Mother of The Sea! They've done it, they've really really done it!" The shrimp, plump like a peach was the size of a half-dollar (the coin, not the paper). It looked grilled. It looked marinated. Then I took a bite.
Have you ever wanted something for a long long time? You desired it so that you couldn't stop thinking about it? You built it up to be something better than it ever could be? Then, once you finally got it, you realized it didn't fulfill your every hope a dream and within a few months, you were hawking it on ebay? Not so with the Pacific Shrimp Taco.
The soft-shelled taco had six huge shrimp in a bed of diced tomato and crispy lettuce (possibly cabbage as it was crispy like cabbage) with a ranch-style sauce over the top.
As I sat in my drive-way, finishing up the taco, I noticed some of the filling had fallen out of the taco into the wax paper. It was just tomatoes and lettuce, right? Wrong. There was lettuce and tomato but there on top, like the prize at the bottom of the box, was the sixth shrimp ("I see dead crustaceans" - wasn't that in the movie?).
The shrimp taco will set you back quite a bit more than a regular taco. $2.47 each. They do have a combo meal with two tacos and a drink for just under $6. That's about right for a full meal. Two shrimp tacos should fill you up.
Finally, if you are still fearful of fast-food shrimp...I ate that taco over 14 hours ago with no ill effects.
"Thank you; please drive around for your order."
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