We sat at a picnic table, overlooking the mucky, gray water of Holmes Lake, the nachos sitting ominously in between us. In the sticky August sun, the sour cream melted and swirled with the disturbingly yellow cheese sauce. Slowly, the diced tomatoes and hamburger chunks slid down the soggy chips to the bottom of the cardboard boat. Our spirits, much like the tortilla chips, drooped. A pit of processed cheese and regret settled at the bottom of my stomach. Four plates of nachos in an afternoon was at least three too many. 

            We were just sitting on the couch one early summer day when Tara posed the question, “If we did a food tour, what food would it be?” According to Instagram, a set of sisters from our high school had visited every coffee shop in Lincoln, and Tara was inspired.

            “Chicken strips?” I suggested, “Or maybe breadsticks?”  

            We contemplated for a moment. 

            “What about nachos?” 

            Yes. Nachos. We broke into hysterical laughter, naming all our favorite nacho locations. I thought we were still speaking in hypotheticals, but Tara had latched on to the idea. 

            “Okay, but actually though,” she pleaded, “We have to do this.” 

            Our mom, a witness to this conversation, thought we had lost our minds, but Tara was already adding Nacho Tour to the 2018 Summer List, sealing our fate. Any activity that gets added to the List must be completed. Those are the rules. Besides, this was definitely not the first time, nor would it be the last, that a joke had evolved into reality. A nacho tour would just be another bullet point on our lengthy list of dumbassery. Other top moments would eventually include getting matching tattoos inspired by The Office, making homemade burritos with frozen chicken nuggets, and baking a cake from scratch for our parents’ anniversary, only to accidentally create physics-defying frosting that melted faster when placed in the refrigerator. We were no strangers to using irony as a means to justify stupidity. 

            The days of summer were passing quickly, and Nacho Tour was still on the List. With more effort than either of us had ever put into a school assignment, we found a date neither of us were working and began choosing nacho establishments. To truly gain a perspective on Lincoln’s nacho scene, restaurants of all vibes and price points needed to be included. We decided that Granite City, with its cloth napkin wrapped silverware, would be our fine dining experience, and Brewsky’s, a local sports bar, would be our blue-collar plate. No nacho experience would be complete without a visit to the fast food empire, Taco Bell. Lastly, we decided to top off our nacho-filled afternoon with cinnamon chips from Amigos.  Through all this planning, I don’t think either of us considered how ill we would feel after it was over. 

            Friday, August 10th, 2018, we set out on our adventure. First stop; Granite City. We laughed nervously as we rolled into the parking lot in Pascal, our 2002 Honda Accord, named for its dark green peeling paint and overall lizard-like appearance. 

            “Just two?” the hostess asked as we entered the lobby. 

            “Yes,” we answered in unison. She led us to a high top, placing two menus and two sets of silverware on the table as we sat on the stud-lined leather chairs. As it was only 11:30, the lunch rush was only just beginning. The quiet hum of patrons’ conversations was broken only by the cutlery clattering against the ceramic plates and the glasses clanking behind the bar. Most of the other diners were business men and women, clad in pristinely ironed button-down shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to avoid any mishaps. In our shorts, Goodwill T-shirts, and worn Birkenstocks, we were misfits. 

            Soon after we were seated, our waiter approached the table. 

            “Hi ladies, my name is Taylor and I’ll be your server today. What can I get for you?” 

            Tara asked for a Dr. Pepper, and I a glass of water. He was just about to turn around and head towards the kitchen when I stopped him. 

            “Actually, we’re ready to order our food. We’d just like to share a plate of the Idaho nachos.” 

            For just a moment, his customer service smile cracked, and annoyance flickered across Taylor’s face. “Just the nachos? Would you like any other appetizers or entrees?” 

            “Nope, just the nachos. Thanks,” we said, handing back the unopened menus. 

            “Of course, I’ll have those out in just a moment,” he sighed. I’m sure he rolled his eyes as he walked past the glass partition behind us. If only he had known his role in our antics.

            We waited anxiously for his return. Finally, he came back carrying a large white dish piled with the cheesy, and apparently controversial, carbs. A foundation of waffle fries, instead of tortilla chips, supported the pile of toppings. Cheese and bacon crumbles had settled into the cracks and fissures of the crispy potatoes, and specks of green onion added life to the otherwise warm-toned dish. 

            We posted a photo of the fry-based nachos to Tara’s Instagram story, where we were documenting all of Nacho Tour, only to receive near immediate criticism from one of our friends. “Those aren’t nachos. Those are cheese fries,” our friend replied. We, however, as advocates for nacho diversity, argued that the cheese topping and the shape of the waffle fry, which mimics the traditional flat tortilla chip, verified this dish’s status as a nacho. Besides, who benefits from creating such rigid labels and categories for our meals? In the end, snack xenophobia only limits us. Ignoring the exclusion, Tara and I devoured every last bit. Perhaps the controversy made these nachos even more enjoyable; each delicious bite of fry and cheese confirmed our belief that this dish was the ideal way to begin this tour. 

            Though we left Granite City feeling optimistic, having conquered our first plate, our stomachs were not as pleased. In the parking lot, the Nebraska sun created a steamy haze across the black asphalt. 

            “I don’t know if this is a problem, but I already feel like garbage,” I complained. 

            Tara agreed, “Yeah, this quantity of dairy in this heat is not looking cute.” 

            Still, we were only ¼ complete with Nacho Tour, and we were raised to persevere through all trials. So we climbed into Pascal and journeyed to our next destination, Brewsky’s. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by the “Seat Yourself” sign, and we made ourselves comfortable at a table with cracked vinyl chairs. In the suspiciously dark lighting, the flashing TV images reflected off the laminate, wood-patterned table top. 

            This time, we faced much less judgement from the waitress when we asked for just an order of the chicken nachos. Still, we were not prepared for the monstrosity that would soon arrive at our table. The waitress set in front of us an enormous pile of chips, the toppings buried under zig-zagged stripes of sour cream. This sour cream, which we first thought to be a blessing, would soon become our biggest enemy. At first, we enthusiastically consumed the perimeter of the nachos, a blissful blend of gooey cheese and crispy chip. The tomatoes and chicken added a well appreciated, lively flair to the richness. Soon, however, we reached the inner layers, and our excitement waned. In the core of the chip stack, the dairy-drenched chips, much like us, were overwhelmed by the weight of toppings. Each bite was sadder and soggier than the last; it was almost too overwhelming to endure. Almost. 

            “Why can’t I stop eating these?” Tara asked, a chip sagging in her hand, “they are so good, but I feel like I’m going to die.” 

            I looked down at my plate, the cheese starting to congeal, “Dying while eating nachos. Sounds about right for us.” 

            Regret followed us outside. Recovering, we sat in the painfully sweltering vehicle.     

“You want to go to Target?” I suggested. 

Relief passed over Tara’s face. “Yes, please.” 

As we had countless times before, we sought sanctuary in the red bullseye. Still in the spirit of the tour, Tara purchased a pair of piñata patterned socks. We lingered at Target as long as we could, but we still had two more stops. 

Next up, Taco Bell. We pulled up to the drive thru kiosk, and I squinted at the aggressively bright menu board.

A voice crackled through the speaker, “Hi, welcome to Taco Bell. What can I get for you today?”

I whispered over to Tara in the passenger seat, “Which do we want, the Nachos Bellgrande or the Nachos Supreme?” 

“Whatever is cheaper. It’s all going to be bad.”

            I turned back to the speaker. “Just one order of the Nachos Supreme, please.” 

            At the window, he handed us a concerningly greasy paper bag, and we took Nacho #3 to the park nearby. Nothing felt more pitiful than eating nachos under the fluorescent Taco Bell lobby lighting at 3pm. Even we had our limits. 

            The Nachos Supreme were supremely disappointing. Everything was so soaked in sour cream we were forced to use the plastic utensils they so generously included in the bag. I could only handle a few bites before my stomach began protesting. Setting down her fork, Tara looked over at two squirrels chasing each other up a tree trunk. 

            “Do you think they want some?” she asked.

            “Absolutely not.” 

            The squirrels ran away on cue, and we laid the leftovers to rest in the park dumpster and got in the car. As we approached Amigos, our final nacho stop, we knew the finish line was in sight. I ordered two bags of Crispos, and we settled under the shade of an umbrella covered table. These cinnamon-sugar dusted tortilla chips were a sweet relief from all the dairy. As we munched on the chips, we posted on the Instagram story four truths we learned during Nacho Tour. 

1. Sour cream is nasty.
2. The middle of the nacho is the best and the worst. 
3. Fries as the base of the nacho is controversial.
4. Most importantly, don’t let your jokes become reality, because you end up thirty dollars down with a good story but a sick stomach. 

            Ultimately, however, we did not really listen to our own advice. While we both now have mild cases of nachophobia, and the sight of sour cream still makes me shudder, “jokes becoming reality” is still the key to our branding. If Nacho Tour proved anything, it’s that all activities, even drowning your digestive system with dairy, can be justified with irony and dumbassery, especially by two sisters who will never turn down an opportunity for a snack.

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Author:

Taylor is a junior English Education major from Lincoln, Nebraska. She is a member of the Morningside Wind Ensemble, and she enjoys reading, painting, and spending time with her sisters.

Artist:

Makaelyn Glienke is a senior double majoring in Advertising and Photography. Her photography career began by taking sports photos, but now she has ventured into more fashion and portrait photography.

My name is Jessie Eighmy and I’m from Glidden, Iowa. I’m a freshman on the X-Path, currently exploring Psychology and Nursing.