If you're going to use the word "ultimate" in a description, you have to bring it. Ultimate fighting? Used to, before they added all these so-called "rules." The Ultimate Warrior? Crazy intense wrestler who retired from the ring to become a completely deranged right-wing motivational speaker.
But the most relevant precedent here is Jack-in-the-Box's ultimate cheeseburger. It lives up to its title, with two hefty meat discs and something like six cheese slices. Maybe eight. I don't have time to count them while stuffing my face.
Rubio's newly available "ultimate nachos"? Not so ultimate. First problem being the cheese.
If you like this story, consider signing up for our email newsletters.
SHOW ME HOW
When you get nachos at a full-on restaurant, they generally have melted grated cheese. Buy 'em at a convenience store, they'll more often have liquid glow-in-the-dark cheese. Both approaches work. Combining them does not. Especially since Rubio's queso sauce, much like the similar offering at El Pollo Loco, is white and mild-tasting. Nachos need a kick, and any liquid cheese on them needs to be radioactive orange. And if Taco Bell is kicking your ass at doing something right, you've got a problem.
The other problem with "ultimate" nachos is that the only add-on option is chicken. (Only the regular size nachos allow steak.)
Rubio's has steak and carnitas available, but not on these. And worse, Rubio's is known for fish and shrimp -- why no possibility of shrimp ultimate nachos, huh, Ralph Rubio? Nobody goes to your place for chicken. And if they do, they're dumb.
I love Rubio's, mostly. I'm mad that they stopped doing the lobster burrito, but I still like the fish and shrimp. I treat myself to Rubio's at least once a week. But I'm never ordering the "ultimate" nachos again.