If you let your stomach be your travel guide, one of many things can happen.
Depending on how adventurous you allow your culinary explorations to venture, you can on occasion find yourself with the wrong end of your body in close proximity to a certain porcelain appliance.
No, that big white oval seat is not a face rest.
But, on many occasions you may find nourishment nirvana.
I happen to be a real believer of Anthony Bourdain’s food philosophy, in that you are much more likely to have intestinal difficulties dining in some chain hotel buffet that is more vacant at dinner time than my list of published travel stories, than if you are bellying-up to some third-world street cart that has a clientele lined up a dozen deep.
I was not able to make it to Los Barriles down in Baja Sur this winter, which is a shame because there is some of the best street food imaginable. But, at least the medium-sized town I live in just west of Sacramento has a very large Hispanic population, which attracts at least a dozen taco trucks.
I have written more than a few times about my interest in those mobile food trucks serving amazing Al Pastor tacos for a buck, among other tasty fare, and I look forward to SacMoFo coming up the end of this month to highlight their trade.
(This is one mofo I am looking forward to.)
Beyond the semi-permanent street-side taquerias, both in Mexico and closer to home, there was another form of street food in Mexico, which I found enticing.
In small towns on certain warm evenings, a vacant gravel lot would spring to life with the introduction of a barbeque of some fashion, a few tables and chairs, and a whole lot of hungry locals waiting in line for whatever was on the grill.
In many cases there was no menu, with just one thing being offered to eat. The specialty of the street, you might say.
It could be a marinated flank steak, which would be diced up and piled deep over a baked potato, along with homemade salsa, sour cream, avocados, chopped fresh tomatoes and cilantro. Just grab your plate, a bottle of hot sauce and at least a couple of ice-cold Pacificos with a lime, and, well, “don’t bother me…I’m eating.”
Or, it might be fresh caught shrimp that is marinated and grilled, or whatever fresh fish the pangas brought in that afternoon. Whatever it is, it will likely be great and will likely be gone before long.
So, it was with great glee that the wife-person and I happened to be driving on the north end of town this evening and noticed a new sign promising, ironically, Baja’s fish & shrimp (or “srimph” as it was spelled on the front of the cart).
A couple of fish tacos and shrimp tacos later, I was warmed with a sense that I might as well have been in Los Barriles.
I guess if I did not make it to Baja this winter, Baja made it to me.
Not only that, but I still get to practice my Spanish, as most of the folks that staff the local taco trucks—and now the Friday grilled fish cart—primarily speak Spanish. I think I am doing pretty well on speaking in Spanish, as long as it is limited to ordering food and beer.
But, I do risk one misunderstanding that could have dire consequences.
I love those pickled carrots that come in those big Number 10 cans. They pack quite a punch, which may have something to do with the jalapenos they share the can with.
The problem is that the Spanish word for carrot is “zanahoria,” but I tend to pronounce it more like “sanatorium.”
My wife has warned me that if I keep ordering a “sanatorium” with my Al Pastor tacos, one day they might actually fill my order.
I suspect that the wife-person would find that a just desert.
Well, maybe for at least one of us.
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