It's like a scene out of a movie: the know-everything writer, pushing big nerd glasses back up on the bridge of his cook-bookish nose, trying out a bit of show-off Spanish, placing a knowing order, within which to don worldliness, after which to scribe a wise pen-sermon full of clever phrases and expensive-sounding words, is stopped in his cocky tracks with a simple question— “What meat?” Yes, apparently you can improvise, personalize your alambre here at this white truck parked on 20th and National. And while such off-balance thinking has led to many problematic orders through the years, it’s clear this is a dish that could only be messed up by a vegetarian. This is the thought the man in the order window must have, half-heartedly agreeing, nodding, patiently waiting, as I audibly recite every possible roster variation that comes to mind, eventually arriving on an All-Star team of asada, pastor and chorizo.
This is a to-go order of homogenized harmony, everything neatly, uniformly diced, melded, a goopy white cheese center holding the whole family together with the droopy, loving arms of a domineering grandmother. Nothing gets too far away, each bite seemingly packed with equal part onion and bell pepper hunks, velvety melty queso, and, in my iteration, craggly cow and greasy pork two different ways. Ignore the rote verde salsa in lieu of a truly mean-spirited, arbol-centered sauce. It lends a bit of heated vitality, vigor throughout all that togetherness. This eye-opening feel is furthered by full exploration of the bag. That tin-foiled brick down there isn’t more tortillas. It is a steaming baked potato. Soft, starchy, you can neatly crumble it atop the meat mix, or maybe refry a bit for next-morning eggs. Either way, it’s happily sponge-like, more salsa-soaking than French fries, and turns out to be an ingenious little carb-y loaf addition to the big Styrofoam protein package. It’s also another surprising glimpse of the peripatetic nature of taco trucking—the road is a mighty teacher.
