by Cord Jefferson | Jan 23, 2019 | Food
Ican’t remember the first time I ate at Nico’s, the chain of greasy taco shops in my hometown, Tucson. It’s been a constant in my life for so long that it feels as if I’ve always done it, like tying my own shoes or brushing my teeth. If I were to guess, I’d say that it was sometime in high school, when my friends and I started getting our own cars and our own money, and exploring the new freedoms those things afforded. No longer was I consigned to the meals my parents prepared, a revolving series of rib-sticking classics from their Midwestern upbringings: steak Diane, chicken a la king, pork chops, potatoes au gratin from a box. I could finally eat whatever I wanted, provided it was within the budget of a 15-year-old busboy at a mid-level bar and grill.
Nico’s was generally reserved for late nights, the last stop after seeing a friend’s band or going to a party on the other side of town before heading home. There were various Nico’s locations, but the only one that mattered was at the intersection of Fort Lowell and Campbell. It wasn’t much to look at, a simple white building with red trim and a gable roof. The structure had once housed a Long John Silver’s; you could still see where they’d sawed down the logs from the ornamental boat dock. A gazebo in front sheltered a few tables under corrugated tin, while two identical signs atop doors at either end of the building beckoned, “OPEN 24 HOURS” and “FAST FAST FAST MEXICAN FOOD.” Inside, seating was limited to a handful of those laminated plastic booths you see everywhere from dollar-slice shops in Manhattan to truck stop diners in Oklahoma. There were two arcade games tucked into one corner, near the swinging door that led to the bathrooms, but I can’t recall anyone ever playing them. People were there to eat.
