Edited by: Fiza Mishra
I love Mexican food.
Like, I REALLY love Mexican food.
So of course, when I go to a party I expect to have a nice meal with some nice people and just, you know, have a nice time? I always assumed that this was the bare minimum, not very much to ask for.
Spoiler alert, apparently it is.
So yeah, expecting to have just a nice Thursday evening, I went to that damn Mexican-themed party last night. You could say it’s a lame theme with no real occasion or purpose but the neighbours are a little shady. And they probably also just really like Mexican food. I don’t blame them. But just the most perfect thing happened. I didn’t get the memo and reached three hours late.
After the party was over.
Now if someone says that dinner is going to be Mexican food, I will bloody well starve myself all day just to enjoy the end of the hardest day of the week. Like every other college student trying to mask their uncontrolled quarter-life crisis, I did not have any meal since the morning. I had been starving for as long as I could remember. But I used my favourite coping mechanism that never fails and rationalised it.
It’s okay, Stuti. It’ll be so worth it when you finally get it. If you end up eating a random snack, you’ll have committed too much. You’ll be full, and you’ll need a palate cleanser before you dig into the good stuff .
Spoiler alert, not worth it.
When I went into their room with my own kind of walk of shame, they looked at me really pitifully. Gosh, she looks starved and depressed.
“Hey sorry, but there’s a few leftover nachos on the desk, you can grab them on the go if you’d like”.
Like? I WOULD LOVE A NACHO. And I genuinely really did.
With barely any salsa and guacamole, but it was unironically the best thing I had ever had. It was soggy, flavourless, a little bit broken also actually, but ooooooof, foodgasm.
Yeah.
And then they showed me pictures of everyone dancing it up to Latin pop (my favourite genre of music, can you imagine the amount of FOMO?) eating hot, yum, giant enchiladas and quesadillas. There were some good tacos in the mix too. I missed out on all of it, and it wasn’t even my fault, you know? They just sent me the wrong damn time. Why was I so flushed and embarrassed about that? I assure you it was not because they didn’t want me there, I assure you they are wonderful and inclusive people (weird sounds come from their room after 11pm but I will ignore that), it’s just my luck. Bad timing, each and every time.
And just while I was staring at that perfect virtual half-eaten taco shell, the most pivotal, earth shattering self-discovery altered my brain chemistry forever. My love life is really just the very same. Everyone out there already claimed the most wonderful, hot, nutritious and good looking piece of food which treats them right, and is passionately committed to making it work long term. And that’s just wonderful. I am so happy for them.
But can you blame me for being excited over that really sad, downtrodden leftover dorito chip that barely passed as a nacho when that was genuinely all I was ever exposed to?
I DON’T HATE THE NICE FOOD MAN, I REALLY JUST DON’T EVER GET IT.
And of course I’ve blamed myself for it, I’ve done all of that and worse. I don’t think I’m good enough for Mexican food. I don’t think I’m eating it right. I think I’m attaching myself to it way before it’s on my plate. The side just doesn’t work with it.
Unfortunately, the nice food I have met really just derives immense pleasure from friendzoning me into believing that it isn’t even Mexican food. You won’t like me, Stuti. I am not what you’re looking for. My taco shell is too hard for you (which is… kind of the point). But anyway, my half-nacho, won after many perils, wouldn’t even have to try and I would still be so in love with the fact that it’s my first and only meal of the day. With nothing else to really compare it to, its beaming mediocrity tends to become much more than enough for me.
It’s true. I have a taste for enchiladas too, but they just run out before I get anywhere. All I get is one sad, cold, squishy bean with an even sadder nacho. And I am forced to be happy with it because with my serious eldest daughter complex, adapting to make the best of the worst situations is my one and only acquired skill in my twenty years of existence. Don’t waste food Stuti, just eat it. There’s people starving. And evidently I took it way too seriously. Now I happen to unironically settle for stale and soft taco shells as my best bet.
When Mogambo said ‘Nacho, Basanti’, I couldn’t remotely imagine for this to be what he meant.
I am, quite literally, moving to the beats of a nacho. And I really don’t want to. It is deeply embarrassing.
So maybe I’ll develop a taste for Italian.
Or maybe I’ll just try to get to the next party on time.