I Followed the Original Taco Bell on Its 45-Mile Journey to Taco Bell’s Corporate Headquarters

In what was surely the cultural event of the season—or at least of the five minutes during which it left the parking lot last night—the original Taco Bell shack was moved from a now-vacant lot on Firestone Boulevard in Downey, CA to Taco Bell headquarters in nearby Irvine. When I arrived on the scene, California Highway Patrol SUVs and local news trucks clogged the no-parking zone in front of what has affectionately become known as Taco Bell "Numero Uno."

In the parking lot, reporters milled around drinking coffee and looking bored while curiosity seekers and Taco Bell diehards wolfed down the free burritos and crispy tacos Taco Bell dispensed from a food truck. For some reason, a drone buzzed overhead.

By the time I got there, "Numero Uno" was already mounted on a truck and ready to make the 45-mile journey to headquarters. It was partially covered by a banner emblazoned with the slogan #SaveTacoBell, a hashtag that emerged online as part of a social media campaign and/or corporate marketing ploy when the Downey Conservancy announced that the building was slated for demolition.

Opened by Taco Bell founder Glen Bell in 1962, the 20' x 20' shack was shuttered for business in '86 when an independent taqueria took over the building. Unsurprisingly, there's another, more modern Taco Bell—with a Pizza Hut inside—almost directly across the street.

Heavy metal fans should note that Numero Uno sat on a parched concrete slab on the Downey side of the Downey/South Gate town line, which is undoubtedly the most significant town line in American metal history: Downey is the birthplace of Metallica; South Gate is the birthplace of Slayer. One can imagine Metallica's James Hetfield or Slayer's Kerry King cramming their pieholes full of bean-and-cheese burritos in the early '80s before cruising home to write the memorable opening riffs of "Seek & Destroy" or "Die By The Sword" as their respective bedrooms filled up with noxious ass gas.

Around 9:45pm, 45 minutes before Numero Uno was scheduled to roll to Irvine, I spoke with Deb Bailey and Sue Kesler, two former Downey residents who stood across the street with a homemade sign reading, "Adios, Taco Bell. Thanks For The Memories."

VICE: Why are you here tonight?
Sue: We're bidding goodbye to the number one Taco Bell here in Downey. Deb and I were raised here in Downey. We now live in Burbank, and we came all the way down here to say adios. Hopefully it'll come back to Downey when the time is right.

Did you think there would be more people? There seem to be more police officers than civilians.
I thought there would be more people. I thought more Downey-ites would come out. It's the first one that Glen Bell founded. For many years it was Taco Bell and then it turned into another taco place. Then I guess they wanted the land, so they were gonna tear it down. But there was a huge outcry to save it because it's a landmark.
Deb: We used to ride our bicycles down here to get the Bell Beefer. That was the thing. And this was the only one for the longest time—the only place you could get a Bell Beefer at.

Do you think it's weird that they opened another Taco Bell across the street while this building is still here?
Sue: [Laughs] Well, it's a popular spot. There's another one on Imperial, but this one is the original. It was really nice and well-kept. I'm not sure why it closed, but we were thrilled when we heard they were going to save it.
Deb: You can't go inside the way it is now, but hopefully they'll fix it up. If this property has been sold, maybe they can bring it back to another spot here in Downey. We've also got the oldest McDonald's down on Florence, so what better thing than to have two very special buildings?

Are you going to follow it all the way to Irvine?
Sue: [Laughs] No, I think we're just going to watch as it leaves Downey and take some photos showing our support.

At this point, I jaywalked across Firestone and started pounding free bean burritos. Taco Bell representatives said the trip from Downey to Irvine—usually about a 40 minute drive this time of night—will take four to five hours, so I needed all the energy I could get. I started chatting with a young Downey resident in a Taco Bell shirt named Jaime Cordova.

VICE: Why are you here tonight?
Jaime: I'm a Taco Bell enthusiast, as you can see by my sweater. So I had to come here to see Numero Uno leave.

Did you ever eat at Numero Uno as a kid, or was that before your time?
No, that was before my time. But I'll go to the one across the street every once in a while. There's another one about a mile and a half from here that I also go to sometimes.

Have you ever tried to explore the inside of Numero Uno?
No, I didn't. [Laughs] Because I don't partake in illegal activities. But my girlfriend actually works across the street, so every once in a while I'd ask her if she's heard anything about it. I follow Taco Bell on Twitter, so I heard they were gonna try and save it. A couple days ago, they announced they were gonna move it, so I had to be here.

Wait, does your girlfriend work at the Taco Bell across the street?
[Laughs] No, she doesn't.

So, listen: I snagged this piece of Numero Uno from that pile of rubble over there. I'm not sure if it's from the interior or what. Do you think I'll be able to get anything for it on eBay?
I don't know. But you can definitely say it's from the original location.

Are you gonna take a souvenir tonight?
I probably will. [Laughs] Why not?

By now, Numero Uno was ready to roll. As the truck driver fired up the engine, people started cheering and a dude with a microphone barked, "Hasta luego, Taco Bell!" over a hidden PA. He asked if he could get a "woop-woop." Many bystanders, their jowls encrusted with cheese and refried beans, obliged.

The SUVs guarding Numero Uno swooped across Firestone to block traffic as the truck carrying the historic monument to all things tacos and bells moved slowly out of the parking lot. A news helicopter hovered overhead. Reporters rushed back to their vans, causing a traffic jam. It took me a full ten minutes to eventually cross Firestone on foot and get back to my car.

The entourage guiding Numero Uno to its new home was way bigger than I'd anticipated. There were at least two cop cars in the lead, yellow lights flashing, guiding Numero Uno back to her corporate womb as she blocked both lanes of traffic. In the rear: more cop cars and a black SUV swerved endlessly across lanes to prevent the dozen or so vehicles' worth of fans and journalists (including me) from getting too close. There was also a pickup truck with a webcam mounted on a large pole so people could follow the trip from the comfort of their homes.

At many major intersections along the route from Downey to Irvine, people gathered on corners to take pictures of Numero Uno on their phones: Teenagers, retirees, mostly, plus a few guys with iPads who looked like they work at the bank. In Cerritos, a woman wearing a sweatsuit sprinted down the sidewalk while desperately snapping photos. In Buena Park, some backwards-cap bros had a video camera mounted in the bed of their pickup. In the city of Orange, a police cruiser came out of a side street to join us for a mile or two, only to peel off down another side street without warning. Somewhere in Tustin, a woman in a white Taurus cut me off while taking pictures with her phone.

When we arrived at Taco Bell HQ in Irvine, the fuzz were out in force again. Between the CHP and the Irvine cops, I counted at least eight police vehicles. The same drone from Downey (I think) buzzed incessantly overhead. In a testament to the speed with which Taco Bell somehow manages to produce their menu items, the trek took a half an hour less than announced. The drivers and passengers of the 15 or so civilian vehicles that made the trip swarmed the grassy knoll on Glen Bell Way to snap more photos. The general feeling was one of anticipation. Perhaps the Taco Bell overlords would ply us with free burritos again, or a Glen Bell hologram would appear to tell us the force is with us. Maybe the drone would start dropping little packets of hot sauce on us and one lucky winner will find a golden ticket for a lifetime supply of chalupas.

But then nothing happened.

The experience felt like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade but with one 50-year old float that happened to be a former taco stand. Given the logistics of the trip and the somewhat fragile nature of the cargo, you could say it was like Klaus Kinski trying to haul the ship over the mountain in Werner Herzog's Fitzcarraldo if you really wanted to get emo about it. But you'd be wrong, because it was mainly a corporate self-celebration disguised as a spiritual journey based on Volcano Nachos and Gordita Supremes. Welcome home, Numero Uno.

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