There's this bar The Squeeze and I like to go to with really good food. And I like to order the nachos. Yes, as a meal. Don't judge me.
When you order nachos (real, restuarant ones on a plate with more than a blob of sorta cheesy looking stuff like at the movies), have you ever noticed that most of your nachos have absolutely nothing on them? Your plate arrives, piled high with steaming, greasy chips, and a big scoop of sour cream on the side, and... that's it?
Weren't these supposed to have, oh, I don't know. Salsa? Chicken? Beans? Anything but chips?
At this point, The Squeeze must resign himself to putting up with me bitching about the fact that my nachos should win the Most Disappointing Nachos of the Year award. I'm a slow eater, so this lasts a while. Like, an hour. I sigh, and eat a chip, and sigh, and drink some beer, pick off a jalapeno (why is it the only thing on my nachos are the one thing I never remember to tell them not to put on?), and then I might bitch some more.
And then--ah, and then. I get to those last three chips. Somehow, hidden under those last three, now-soggy chips, are everything that were supposed to be on the chips. And those last three nachos are a glorious, glorious thing.
(True: October 21 is the International Day of the Nacho--now get your own!)