When accompanying five-year-old gourmand Rowan to the eatery of his choice, one must be prepared to make sacrifices. The not-yet Michelin-rated Taco Bell, just a block from our manse in the middle of Santa Cruz County, was to be the destination for a capricious luncheon with the tiny taco titan. The brightly lit menu items above our heads gleamed with portent and promise. Brilliant green lettuce, grown and picked by virgins, tumbled sensuously from robust tortillas; steaming frijoles and gloriously grilled chunks of charcoal-emblazoned meats danced with cheese so voluptuous that it defied belief. Every single plate promised a fistful of dripping, smoldering oral pleasure. Rowan imperiously ordered, as was his wont, the classic Bean and Cheese Burrito, truly the test of any authentic Mexican chef—in this case, the challenge facing the cook was how to engorge the burrito with the requisite 1200 milligrams of sodium. I brazenly ordered a Chicken Supreme Gordita®, my mouth watering with anticipation. Alas, when confronted with the reality of the actual "meal" (a euphemism employed here only for the sake of continuity), despair set in. I bit deeply into my Chicken Supreme Gordita® (Spanish for "zaftig") and encountered only layers and layers of tepid tortilla. A second bite revealed a cavernous lack of carnivorous substance: the overwhelming impression one receives in this instance is that of lettuce, so browned and mangled and wilting as to slither from its captivity in the tortilla. Subsequent bites were even more unsatisfying, as I failed to detect the cornucopia of either cheese or pollo, and I glanced at my companion to see how he fared. Rowan was tearing his way through his burrito, oblivious to the discrepancies between the marquee and that in his hands: his "burrito" resembled nothing so much as the Mexican version of a cocktail weinie (made flatter with the use of anvils, no doubt). It is thus with a heavy heart that I must offer the direst warnings to those people unfortunate enough to select Taco Bell as a dining destination. Anyone who's seen the restaurant scene in the horrifyingly bleak film, "Brazil," will understand my bitter laugh, remembering Katherine Helmond sending her compliments to the chef over three piles of glistening emerald gunge. What you see is not what you get.