Taco Del Mar & McDonald's Put the 'O' in Mayo

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McCocks.jpg
Lucinda Swain
It remains one of life's great injustices that not every American citizen gets to experience the exhilaration of having a load splattered on

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Taco Del Mar & McDonald's Put the 'O' in Mayo

  • Taco Del Mar & McDonald's Put the 'O' in Mayo

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    McCocks.jpg
    Lucinda Swain
    It remains one of life's great injustices that not every American citizen gets to experience the exhilaration of having a load splattered on his or her face and/or in his or her mouth during his or her lifetime. Thankfully, there are a pair of fast-food chains--one with local roots, one obscenely global--with locations in Seattle which boast hot, white sauces that simulate the ejaculatory facial. Granted, neither Taco Del Mar nor McDonald's come close to the sweet stimulation of Beard Papa's, but touting the semenistic virtues of a cream puff is as obvious as saying Jimi Hendrix was a very good guitarist.

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    Fish taco snobs like to slag on Taco Del Mar, which got its start on the downtown Seattle waterfront in 1992 and has since expanded to include franchises in 17 states and Canada. But without Taco Del Mar, where would the Pacific Northwest fish taco be today? Atop a bed of fries, most likely, and absent any trace of cabbage, pico de gallo or TDM's heavenly, mysterious white sauce. Attempts to pry the closely-guarded recipe from TDM Corp. proved futile, but a lower-level employee (i.e., a guy who makes the fish tacos for a living) told us that ingredients include serrano peppers, jalapeno peppers, pickles and mayonnaise. He did not mention that the sauce includes trace amounts of God's jism, but based on its mouthwatering taste, it undoubtedly does. Question the authenticity of TDM's fare if you must, but its addictive quality in unassailable--mainly due to the white sauce.

    Compared to McDonald's, the amount of criticism TDM is subjected to is miniscule. Seattleites hate McDonald's almost as much as they do Starbucks. And yet, in a blind taste test, Mickey D's fries would whoop those of local fave Dick's, and the McChicken would rate highly as well if it was served at a local gastropub instead of in a yellow wrapper. By itself, the crispy chicken filet is merely good, but when slathered in hot mayo, it's a secret treat worth savoring in private. Plus it's $1.49, and times is tough.

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