Taco Night was always something to look forward to as a kid. It was the one night of the week when the sun started to set, and the streetlights flickered on, that you left your friends and ran home. This was not an evening to be late for dinner.
Suburban 1990’s tacos meant hard shells and ground beef mixed with a packet that’s description was the only label it needed: taco mix. The simmering pan of meat, which always included orange drool left around the edges, was met with all the fixings: lettuce, chopped tomatoes, cheddar cheese, jarred salsa, and if you were lucky guacamole or sour cream. I found out in my later years that these are referred to as “gringos tacos.” They were every kid’s favorite dinner, next to pizza of course.
The next phase of my flowering education was the discovery of the soft taco. We were not a Taco Bell family, so this was an inconceivable modification. It changed my world. However, it wasn’t until I reached LA that I truly understood the versatility of the taco. And thus, my obsession with street meat was born.
To begin, there were endless meat options: chicken, carne asada, the delectable carnitas, and not to mention all the scribbled Spanish options that I could barely comprehend. I wanted them all. Then there were the accompanying salsas, one for every day of the week. The chopped onions with cilantro that I never knew I needed, and limes everywhere for the taking. I was in heaven. I scoured the valley for every truck option.
“I must try them all,” I declared. And I did.
It was when I moved to West LA that my relationship with tacos shifted yet again. While my trusty loncheras were still available in droves, the world of street food was changing and forcing me to change with it. Restaurants were ingeniously creating mobile versions of themselves, and this trend was catching on overnight. It was like breakfast dumplings. Something that made perfect sense once you heard it, but could have never dreamed up on your own. Before I knew it I was bombarded by fusion tacos in every way imaginable. The options were endless. And while they weren’t those dollar gems I remember craving so frequently, how could I pass up the opportunity to try a Korean taco with pickled ginger on top? I would scan these menus, pondering the flavor combinations and how such a tiny garnish could change everything.
A new obsession was born. I became a fiend, hunting trucks on twitter. I followed every handle possible to stay highly informed at every moment. I owned the Kogi truck and could tell you where it would be before they could. I had gone to the dark side, throwing endless amounts of money at these bourgeois giants and their astonishing dream concoctions that kept me coming back for more.
Finally the trend seemed to calm. I would leave the office and was no longer bombarded with brightly painted metal boxes all parked in an endless row beckoning the lunch crowd. With their clever puns no longer taunting me, I was able to wean myself off the tacos I so dearly loved as a child. I would now bow to a new king. The burrito called for me.
Roaring Tiger 