If I was the marketing director at Taco Bell, my first order of business would be to fire the person responsible for naming their menu items.
To me this sounds like a culinary clusterfuck derived from the ‘clever’ mind of someone who one day at lunch, pensively doodling at their food with a fork, managed to combine an enchilada and burrito into an unrecognizable mass.
“Quickly, someone run and get me a soft tortilla—I think I’ve got something!”
Voilà. The enchirito.
My second order of business would be to launch an ad campaign similar to that of Subway, where I’d find some pudgy little Mexican kid, feed him a steady diet of a tacos and diet coke for a year and watch the pounds magically drip-off.
Svelte enough for a tiny Speedo sans the overhang, I’d pimp this kid to the world as the new poster child for taco lovers everywhere.
Only he wouldn’t speak English in the ads.
I’d make him speak in his native tongue for the sake of authenticity. And with no subtitles either.
That way, when he’s speaking that mile-a-minute gibberish Mexicans are so good at, and he tries to slip in something like;
“Señor Diego, he lock me in basement—he make me eat cabbage, I go home now—please?”
No-one will ever know what the fuck he’s saying.