ASU ResLife feels that deluging its residents with all manner of "informative" anti-drinking propaganda is a really valuable idea. Frankly, I could care less if ResLife, or anyone else for that matter, wants to waste money printing up cheese-ball, anti-drinking posters that freshman can rip off the walls and display in their dorm rooms with all the ironic bombast of a crackhead wearing a D.A.R.E t-shirt. I don't want to gripe about ResLife policy, but let a chronically hungover and vomit-prone public in on a helpful little secret.
Kitty-corner from Sun Stop Liquors sits Vaquero's, an unassuming box featuring both indoor and outdoor dining rooms, as well as a wrap-around drive-through and a large parking lot. Understand that if Vaqueros was subject to the dictates of traditional free-market economics, i.e. an informed, rational and, most importantly, sober consumer confronted with an array of competing options, it would have fired its illegal immigrant staff and closed up shop long ago.
One classic ResLife propaganda move is printing newspaper ads proclaiming that the average ASU student consumes less than three or four drinks per week. Of course, as everyone knows, the targeted student demographic then turns around and uses said ads to clean their beer bongs, which are capable of delivering three or four drinks per minute.
Eventually, the alcohol czar realized that unleashing vodka-drenched SCUD missile attacks at the liver constitute an inalienable aspect of acquiring a college education and that therefore students should be taught how to militate against the short-term effects of binge drinking. Which, of course, brings us to food and water.
Adam Smith's sacrosanct informed, rational and sober consumer would probably decide where to eat based on things like taste, nutrition and sanitation. Drunk college kids questing after late-night grub operate according to three rules: price to munchie ratio, hangover prevention and restaurant proximity.
Vaquero's location on the same block as my apartment complex entirely circumvents the necessity of designating a semi-sober driver. Furthermore, the very act of walking a block or two can often ameliorate some of the nausea typically following an all-night tangle with multiple 30 packs.
Secondly, the unwashed, green card-lacking mob operating the griddle knows how to whip a case of munchies like none other. The menu offers four, maybe five acceptable items and a host of disgusting rubbish that was probably stolen from the dumpster of a reputable Mexican establishment. When operating on a tight budget, one should probably stick to Vaquero's triumvirate of quality burritos: the Machaca, the California and the Carne Asada. Each is obtainable for under three bucks.
The California, a succulent blend of beef, potatoes and salsa encased in a massive flour tortilla, provides solid hunger relief. Its secret weapon against encroaching vomit and next-day sickness and lethargy is the potatoes, which act like starchy alcohol sponges.
If you're feeling extra saucy, try the Carne Asada and feel the soothing effects of rich, oily guacamole: the Pepto-Bismol of the south. Seasoned veterans generally gravitate toward the Machaca, a combination of shredded beef, eggs, and peppers. Consuming this burrito is much like getting your stomach pumped, i.e. instantaneous sobriety.
Lastly, for those who think that alcohol just doesn't pack the desired caloric punch, old man Vaquero cooks up the Super Nachos, a gigantic beef, sour cream, guacamole, cheese, bean and salsa concoction garnished with a halved lime. Anyway you cut it, Vaquero's offers a cheap, tasty late-night treat and the option of keeping your head out of the toilet.
Solomon Rotstein is a humanities sophomore. Reach him at solomon.rotstein@asu.edu.
