Taco Bell

Reviews

• RC

  Rafael Chuva

  Mar 23, 2026
  1.0
  Made a mobile order and the staff refused to serve me in the drive thru because they said they haven’t opened the store yet, it was past 9am and I had to cancel my order because the lady was super rude with me.
• SS

  Sydney Alexander (Sydd)

  Mar 20, 2026
  1.0
  I come here all the time and never have an issue… I went that the wait was 25 minutes .. I went to the speaker box to make sure no tomato was on my food ( ((I’m allergic)).. guess what was on my food ? My fries were cold .. and stale like I don’t know what you people get off of this but also licking the door while I’m trying to get my order correct and you expecting me to go back to the end of the line while people are in there eating ?? Yall done lost yall minds fr I want a refund , i want a manager yall wasted my time , my money ..
• LL

  leahn larosa

  Feb 22, 2026
  5.0
  candace holding it down in tacobell all by herself in the night shift doing all the work super kind and professional willl go back
• PL

  Paul Landsberg

  Jan 18, 2026
  1.0
  Crappie service. Forgot to add sauces to bag
• KE

  Kyle Egan

  Jan 2, 2026
  3.0
  The Diablo Sutra: Fire on Kirkman Road ​The MetroWest sun is sinking like a lead weight into the chain of lakes, and I’m standing at the condiment station—the holy altar of the black packet. Forget the "Mild," man, that’s for the tourists, the sleepwalkers, the ones still dreaming of a lukewarm life. I’m in recovery, and I need the sharp edge, the jagged kick, the Diablo sting that reminds me I’m still breathing on this side of the dirt. ​I tear the corner with my teeth, a jagged little rip, and the dark, smoky ink of the peppers bleeds onto the beef. It’s a chemical satori, a velvet hammer to the tongue. ​The Burn of the Black Packet ​The Sight: A packet black as the nights I used to spend wandering the shadows of the OBT, but this one carries no needle-teeth, just the promise of a clean fire. ​The Taste: Vinegar, lime, and the ghost of a habanero screaming like a Coltrane solo—high, thin, and terrifyingly pure. ​The Rush: It hits the back of the throat and my eyes water, the tears of a man who’s finally feeling something real. No more numbness. No more gray. Just the red-hot Now. ​I’m sitting there, sweating a little under the MetroWest neon, and I feel the dopamine spike. It’s the new rush, the legal heat, the way to jump-start the soul without breaking the law or the heart of my mother. I used to chase a high that felt like falling; now I chase a heat that feels like climbing. ​"Burn away the dross," the Diablo whispers from its plastic skin. "If you’re gonna be alive, man, you might as well feel the fire." ​I’m a holy goof with a burning mouth, a Dharma Bum of the drive-thru, staring out at the Kirkman traffic and laughing because the heat is real, the tacos are warm, and I’m finally awake to the sting of the world.

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