When I write about food, I usually write about stuff that I like. Mushrooms, tomatoes, pizza, my grandmas’ pickles. I’ve written about all these things, usually in the sort of over the top prose reserved for middle aged dads talking about Ken Griffey Jr., or Bruce Springsteen. I believe that sort of positive writing has its place in the world. Critical food writing also deserves its time in the limelight, however. Sustained unalloyed excitement for things does not represent the human experience. I like stuff, but, get this, I also do not like stuff. You mostly likely have things that you do not like as well. Unless you have decided to turn yourself into a Chris Hardwick-esque brand robot, most likely multiple things exist that turn your stomach. One of the things that disgusts me? Nachos.
As a child I would tell this joke about a fish who wanted another fish’s cheese. When the first fish asked for the cheese the second fish replied, “This is nacho cheese.” The trick to the joke – as hopefully everyone over four-years-old has already realized – comes from pronouncing “Nacho” as “Not yo.” Why it involved fish I do not remember. I think I had heard it that way from somewhere or something else, but I cannot say for certain. I repeated that joke dozens, if not hundreds of times. Probably at least once in high school. I’ve already gone on too long about the fish joke. I bring up this piscine diversion to say that nachos hold a huge place in the American psyche.
Fast-food chains and fast casual restaurants alike love nothing more than to advertise their nachos. Taco Bell, TGI Fridays, and Applebees alone have spent fortunes on advertising their version of the cheesy chip. Any sports bar worth its salt has at least one kind of nacho on the menu, if not more. Restaurants and food blogs have even started to do “ethnic” variations on the dish. A quick google search for “Asian Nachos” brings up a bunch of recipes. They have become a staple of American cuisine.
The branding of nachos has a lot to do with its success. Rarely does someone order nachos for themselves as a main course. For the one person reading this who does that regularly, I write a hearty, dang dude, what the heck? Observing a person eating a plate of nachos by themselves remains one of the saddest things you can see in this world. Whoever first invented nachos designed them for group consumption. Listed in the “Appetizer” sections of most menus, restaurants encourage large groups of people to share the dish. A meal that promotes friendship. Ad execs and waiters alike sell nachos as a form of friendship. The ultimate in group bonding activities. Don’t like sour cream? Don’t get a chip with sour cream on it. Or better yet, do get a chip with sour cream on it and give it to your pal Jeff. Instant friendship.
So why don’t I like nachos? If anything, this newsletter has promoted increased human connection, positing that working toward greater connections with and understanding of our fellow homo sapiens remains one of the few ways forward. Surely, the Dang, Dude empire would endorse a meal that does exactly that. If only nachos truly upheld that standard. Unfortunately, they do not.
The case against nachos resembles a four-legged stool, sturdy and stout. First, when the time comes to eat the last two-thirds of the nachos they somehow have transformed into soggy inedible mass. Second, Sisyphus had more luck getting that boulder up the hill than anyone can while trying to eat nachos without making an absolute mess. Third, nachos get colder quicker than Juicy Fruit loses its flavor. Fourth, and finally, someone always loses out. On their own, anyone of these faults wouldn’t immediately sink a food. However, nachos have all four, creating a maelstrom of horridness. A Frankenstein food fit for no one.
Allow me to elaborate. One, the soggy inedible mess. The bottom two-thirds of a nacho plate always comprises a mass of soggy chips no longer able to hold up even themselves. This sogginess, caused by a combo of juice from the jalapeños, salsa, sour cream and congealed cheese, lends nothing to the food. It completely overpowers the chips, rendering them useless. And eating nachos with a spoon or fork? An unforgivable sin. The horrible counterpart to this comes from the fact that if you can describe the bottom two-thirds of your chips as bone-dry that means that the nacho provider did not properly load your nachos. A Catch-22 for the ages.
Two, nachos stay messy. I, for one, do not detest a mess. I’ll eat a messy rib, a sauced-to-all-hell wing, or greasy pizza any day of the week. But nachos take the level of mess to a simply preposterous level. The messiness of the aforementioned foods follows predictable patterns. Sauce will get on your fingers or whatever, but you know where, when, and how the mess will occur. With nachos, there an added element of chaos enters the equation that simply makes it untenable. Perhaps it falls off your chip into your lap on the way to your mouth. Or someone reaching over to grab a nacho drops it. Or you spill a bunch of the stuff onto the table while trying to get a perfect chip. Too many variables for any one person to grasp.
Three, nachos get chilled too quick. The individual ingredients in nachos lack depth. The extra surface area means that whatever heat gained through broiling, or more likely, sitting under heat lamps, disappears the minute the chips touch the air. The dumpster-style construction of nacho plates creates enough holes that even the middle, which should retain the most heat, loses all of it rather quickly. This congeals the cheese into an unattractive, formerly viscous, mass that sits atop the chips as mold sits atop a loaf of old bread. No thanks.
Fourth, someone always loses out on their fair share of the supposed bounty of the nacho plate. Imagine if you will, a rectangular six-person table. Standard at many a nacho-serving bar. A plate of nachos sits in the middle. What should the people at the ends of the table do? Stand-up and rudely reach across two other people to get their ‘chos? Constantly ask for people to pass around the plate? Attempt to build their own little nacho plate, without pissing anyone off by taking too much of the meat? (Tim Robinson was right, iykyk) A stressful situation for everyone in involved.
The case against nachos has thus stayed airtight. However, Dang, Dude does not want to get into the habit of providing criticism without construction. The actual food involved in nachos does not to turn the stomach. Nothing wrong with the ingredients, just the execution. So I will present the perfect idea for how nachos should work.
Every person who partakes in the nachos should receive their own metal tray, one foot by six inches. This tray holds the tortilla chips. The restaurant tops them with shredded cheddar cheese, or the liquid nacho cheese, and then broils them. The kitchen then provides the table with all the toppings. The toppings come in bowls. Individual bowls for the beans, the salsa, sour cream, etc. Diners can then create their nachos as they see fit. The larger portions of the toppings will hold heat longer and will come with lids to retain even more heat. Passing the ingredients in a circle will make it so feel more like a family dinner, and will provide something to do. No one gets left out. The soggy layer dies away. The perfect solution.
Dang, Dude calls upon the restaurant industry to reform and adopt the new nacho standards. Please send this to any and industry heads you may know. A new nacho future is available, we must simply grab it.