What are we really hungry for? Isn't that what we're truly asking when we ask, Where do you wanna eat? I mean, if it was only about filling our stomachs, we'd make sandwiches at home. No, searching for something to eat is part of our continuous maintenance of our identity. That is, deciding to grab, say, some international cuisine is as much about thinking of yourself as someone who rejects processed American blandness in favor of the exotic as it is about the delicioso salsa your fave Mexican place uses. You're really just fiddling with the settings on your sense of self.
Or maybe that's just me. It's possible you just want some lunch.
Good news: We can both eat at Tacone.
Man, I love the way I'm rejecting processed American blandness in favor of the exotic, I think as I bite into a Mambo, the Cuban-style wrap fat with marinated filet mignon, rice, onions and peppers.
"This is really good," my wife says, waving her Campfire, a barbecued chicken wrap, in my face. I bite as it goes past. Hey, those crunchy onions are a nice twist, and the tangy sauce on that thing—delicioso!
"Have some," my son says, poking his four-cheese quesadilla at me. No thanks, I tell him. I already snuck a bite when he was at the condiment bar.
Located in Green Valley's swank mall, The District, Tacone is a fast-food-style franchise—whoops, the appropriate terminology is quick-service gourmet franchise—that serves wraps, salads and grilled sandwiches. The earthy decor (it's long on the yellow, blue, teal and salmon hues that suggest Over There) and pan-ethnic pretense of the food puts it in that strata of casual, denatured-cultural restaurants also occupied by Baja Fresh and La Salsa—one of which, in a puzzling stroke of mall placement, is next door.
OK, so I'm kidding myself about entirely escaping processed American blandness here; no joint in a high-priced dream zone like this is going to serve pure international dishes. The touches derived from Cuba, Thailand, Jamaica, Mexico and elsewhere get downshifted for our contemporary McPalates. Still, kidding myself comes easier here than while gnawing on, say, a supposedly European-inspired "pannido" sandwich at Jack in the Box. Also, there's this: I am a bland American, and so are you, so stop second-guessing me and let's eat.
Sandwich-wise, the Great Gobbler is a good start. (And let's pause for a moment to chastise restaurants that give dumb names to good dishes, as if embarrassing customers by making them actually say, "A Great Gobbler, please" is part of the experience. Rest assured I'll never order the Chick-a-Boom.) Served on grilled ciabatta bread, it rises to the level of pretty-goodness on the delicious interaction of the fresh turkey, the artichoke-pesto spread and the honey-mustard dressing. I did not offer my wife or son a bite.
Similar touches abound: the spicy peanut sauce on the Thai Cone wrap, the rosemary-chili flake mayo on—again with the unwieldy names!—the United Steaks of America sandwich (filet mignon and melted jack). The menu also includes salads (a Caesar topped with garlic tortilla strips; the Spa, a medley of gourdy vegetables and pumpkin seeds).
Hate sweet potatoes? If not, you should; they're utterly foul. But, against my expectations, Tacone's sweet-potato fries are quite good, and just weird enough to flatter my sense that I'm the sort of person not satisfied with ordinary seasoned fries. They come with what the menu calls "our homemade fruity dipping sauce," which I avoid—it really brings out the sweet-potato taste. Ugh. But undipped, they're great.
This is not an unqualified rave, however. With the Four Cheese Quesadilla, I could taste maybe two-and-a-half cheeses, and the effect was, how you say: muy ordinary. Where's a dab of artichoke-pesto spread when you really want it?
So perhaps you're not inclined to consider fast food an exercise in identity-adjustment; I can't imagine that, but hey, your loss. We'll still both leave satisfied.