Cool Ranch Doritoquiles

it's the mashup you never knew you needed

Hello, clowns!

Today I am tackling a very important subject in the culinary world: irreverent fusion cuisine. While upon first glance this subject may seem very whimsical and lighthearted, if you are a chef, it is secretly a very serious matter.

That is because there is a lot of money to be made when you fuse two cuisines together in a slapstick way. A long time ago there was a chef here in Chicago who used to sprinkle crumbled brand-name Cheez-It bits on risotto, and because of this, everyone applauded him for being a Bad Boy in the kitchen.

Incredibly, this chef was able to flip this Cheez-It thing into a television career, making appearances on Iron Chef, Top Chef Masters, MasterChef, and MasterChef Junior. Then, as many people do when they get famous here, he eventually ditched our city, because everyone knows only losers live in Chicago.

Now, you may think I sound like I’m being a hater, but really, I am not. I have done some serious soul searching and have decided that if I were him, I would have done the exact same thing, because as you know, only losers live here in Chicago.

So I thought to myself, “Dannis Ree, you are constantly upset at the financial shackles that burden you in this cold capitalist world. If you create a famous irreverent fusion dish, you too may become rich, and abandon your hometown where practically everyone you love lives, because as everyone knows, only losers live in Chicago.”

I considered some other tried and true silly fusion dishes that ended up being moneymakers, and the first one I thought of was the Doritos Locos Tacos from Taco Bell.

Those things are simple, but genius. Taco Bell was able to combine a delicious tortilla chip snack with a classic hard shell taco, and because they were able to partner with a widely recognized brand, Doritos, this thing became a juggernaut sensation.

As they say, imitation is the highest form of flattery, so if I invented a similar dish and licensed it out to people somehow, I too could hit it big. Imagine me making television appearances because of my culinary invention, becoming wealthy, and rolling up to my next high school reunion in a Lamborghini Countach with Davida.

In reality, the only way for that to realistically happen is if the Lamborghini was stolen, but that’s something I’ll worry about when the next reunion happens. So my fantasy of becoming a famous fusion chef is how I came up with the idea of making Cool Ranch Doritoquiles.

Photo by Mary West on Unsplash

If you do not understand what the concept of my fusion dish is, that is okay, for I will explain it to you now.

The idea is to rudely insert Doritos into the classic Mexican breakfast dish, chilaquiles, which traditionally involve fried tortillas tossed in salsa, and are typically served with garnishes and sometimes an egg of some sort. I enjoy chilaquiles for brunch sometimes when Davida and I go out, because they are quite delicious.

If there is a cultural uproar over the encroachment of a Korean-American chef stepping into Mexican breakfast territory, I will simply point at all the atrocities people have done with Korean food, and I will be immediately be absolved. That is how it works, right?

As I mentioned, brand partnerships are very important if you want to hit it big, so I figured not only would I use Cool Ranch Doritos in these Doritoquiles, but I’d also use Pace® brand salsa.

If either Doritos or Pace® are listening right now, I would compel both parties to cough up the dough, immediately.

I started by warming up the magnificent market-leading Pace® brand salsa verde in a saucepan.

Once the pan of salsa was bubbling, I poured Cool Ranch Doritos into it.

I picked Cool Ranch because I thought it would be a daring choice. Cool Ranch Doritos have this funny habit of smelling terrible to anyone else who’s not about to eat them (I always think they smell mildly like body odor).

Then I tossed the chips into the salsa until they softened up quite a bit.

Davida thought the apartment smelled wonderful, but I did think it smelled mildly like the aforementioned body odor, or “body odour,” as they say in England.

After transferring the softened chips to a plate, I fried up some eggs.

If any famous and rich cookware brands are listening right now, my piece of shit ceramic non-stick one seems to ruin every egg that I cook in it. I will humbly accept every single piece of luxury hardware you have. I promise I won’t sell the pans to pay for my Lamborghini Countach.

After mutilating the eggs while transferring them on top of the chips, I sprinkled them with cotija cheese.

I may be an ignorant person, but did you clowns know that some cotija comes in similar packaging as Green Can Kraft grated parmesan does? I tried some by itself and it tastes awfully similar, which is a fact that delights me to no end. I guess flip-top sprinkly cans are a universal language.

I continued by garnishing the plate with that weird prepackaged guacamole that doesn’t taste like avocados.

You know what I’m talking about, right? The stuff that usually comes in plastic tubs? It looks like guacamole but usually tastes a little sour for some unknown reason. I found a convenient squeezable package of it and tried recreating my best impression of a poo emoji on the corner of the plate.

Then I added a messy scoop of sour cream and sprinkled dried cilantro on top, which smells suspiciously like dried parsley flakes.

Normally I cook with fresh cilantro, but if I’m licensing this concept out to people, I need to make it as easy as possible to replicate, with only the crappiest ingredients. As they shout about in business, gotta keep those profit margins fat, you know?

I laid my creation out in front of the gang, who stared at it silently, and insinuated that I was deliberately trying to become a sellout.

“Shh, guys, don’t ruin it for the whole family!” I said. “Don’t you want to go to Hollywood and be on TV? You’d be the best judges ever. You’re so quiet everyone would be afraid of you.”

No response.

I think I’m really onto something, guys.

I took my first forkful and realized that these Cool Ranch Doritoquiles were fucking delicious. There was just so much big flavor, and as a bonus, each bite was fun as shit. I’d secretly been afraid that all the sodium in the Doritos and the mega-superior supreme Pace® brand salsa verde would be too overpowering, but it ended up being fine. Plus the American palate is so pummeled by sodium now that nobody would notice anyhow.

Davida came over and tried some, exclaimed they were delicious, and told me that she thought I was really good at cooking. See, even she bought into the shtick. All I did was slap a bunch of premade shit together that was already delicious, especially the mega awesome Pace® brand salsa that everyone should buy a million jars of. Now it’s time for me to license this recipe somehow (gimme a million every time you sell a plate, assholes), show up on Top Chef, overexpand my culinary empire, then shutter all of my restaurants.

And oh yeah, we need to leave our ratty hometown. Don’t all of you know that only losers live here in Chicago?

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You guys should treat yourselves to a plate of Cool Ranch Doritoquiles, but if you do, you owe me a lot of money.

If you can’t pay me, the least you can do is share today’s edition of Food is Stupid on social media. It does wonders for the newsletter, and besides, I shared with you the secrets of irreverent fusion cuisine today. You owe me a cut of your future riches.

And speaking of money, don’t forget to upgrade your subscription to a paid one.

Your support has kept the newsletter going for nearly four years now (!!!), but I can’t continue to move on without you. Don’t worry, subscriptions come with some great perks, as in later this week I’ll be making a Nacho Cheese Doritoquiles (a roja edition), and paid subscribers’ll get to read all about it.

(Plus if you sign up, you get full access to the archives via the web or the Substack mobile app.)

Okay, the Substack interface is yelling at me for almost running over the length limit, so I’ll have to say goodbye here, clowns. As always, I love you all, and see some of you in your inboxes later this week. This whole apartment smells like B.O. now.