The best night of my life was the night I stumbled into the Taco Bell in Chicago’s Avondale neighborhood, drunk, with the confidence of a woman who had just given a stranger Advil from a plastic bag in her purse. I found myself in front of one of the newly installed ordering kiosks, and, puzzled and delighted, looked through the categories on the screen, searching for my go-to: the Mexican Pizza, the same thing I’ve been ordering at Taco Bell since I was eight and first tried it at a birthday party. I couldn’t find it. Frantic, I FaceTimed my...
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