Exhibit A: These Nachos Belong in a Zoo

Let’s be honest. You didn’t go to the zoo to learn. You went for the funnel cake, the questionable presence of soft pretzels, and that sacred, slightly sun-warped plastic tray of concession-stand nachos. You know the one. Half the cheese is crusted to the side, the chips have zero structural integrity, and you're holding it like a Fabergé egg while dodging toddlers and aggressive peacocks.

But here's the thing—they slap. Hard.

Maybe it's the ambiance of elephant dung and sunburn. Maybe it's the fact that you paid $14.50 for something that looks like it was assembled by a sleep-deprived intern with a nacho gun. Or maybe it's the pure, unfiltered magic of stadium-style cheese product under direct UV light. Whatever the reason, zoo nachos hit a primal nerve. They’re nostalgic, slightly tragic, and utterly irreplaceable.

So today, we honor the unsung hero of American zoo concessions: nachos. Not artisan. Not photogenic. But reliable. Enduring. And somehow always, always hotter than the sun’s core despite being served from a suspicious plastic vat next to the churro warmer.

To the nachos of the animal kingdom—I see you. I respect you. And I’ll keep coming back, even if it means sharing a bench with a seagull that definitely wants to fight me for the last chip.