I accidentally ordered some nachos when we were at Origins this year and this is what they gave me. While waiting on a trip to LA, I ordered some nachos — intentionally — and this is what they gave me. Go to the ballpark (if you’re crappy and like baseball) and order nachos and this is what they’ll give you.
People, these are not nachos. These are grocery-store corn chips with some petrochemical goo served either on the side or drizzled apocalyptically over the top. Most of the time they are made of poison, but sometimes poison is merely an ingredient.
The number-one condiment in the United States is salsa. That’s right. You’d think that a nation that so readily embraces the topping culture of another country would at least apply some degree of stringency to its culinary art. No deal. Right here, you have the Platonic ideal of nachos, the essence of nachos. As a people, we have wholeheartedly accepted debasement of the nacho despite an obvious affection for the higher things as evidenced by our love of salsa.
To my Mexican peoples, I am deeply sorry.
To the barons of the American nacho industry, it’s on. Hell hath no fury like the country’s newest superhero, Doc Nacho. I will not rest until I at least get some diced tomatoes or some onions on top of the iconic nationwide nacho.
No, those desiccated little jalapenos don’t count.