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When we came upon the cart—calling it a truck would be overly generous—there were three women situated around it. Two worked the grill, their hands moving fast, chopping up pork or beef, browning the edges to crispy perfection while leaving a tender middle in each morsel.
There were hot dogs warming at the front of the grill, topped high with bits of grilled pork. It was a concoction I deeply wanted. Wait, I told myself. Wait.
An intense aroma of grilled street meat ravaged my nostrils and I felt little beads of sweat drip down the small of my back. The boss of the cart smiled warmly and offered me a seat. Walking a few feet away, she grabbed a small wooden chair and I thanked her profusely as I sat down.
It would be a few minutes, she told me in Spanish.
I told her, in broken Spanish, please, take your time. I will wait. Thank you.
Inhaling the smell in my slight stupor was registering pleasure in all parts of my brain.
I felt so very far away from home. I felt so very content to sit on that street and wait forever.
Within minutes, served on a small styrofoam plate, I was served two al pastor tacos. No forks. No napkin. None needed. Just down to business.
It was so hot in my hand. It had just come off the grill. I cocked my head to the side, held the small plate at my mouth with one hand, the treasure with the other.
I bit down.
I’ve lived in food meccas my whole life. I’ve had the good fortune to eat at some of the nation’s finest restaurants. My own brother is a chef and quite literally, he once prepared for me a 45-day aged steak in the middle of the wilderness that was so good, I wanted to slap him across his face. I am not kidding. It was so good it made me mad because he ruined steaks for me, forever.
But this taco, this deceptively complex vessel of flavor, sent me to the moon.
It was unlike any other taco I had eaten. Unlike so many meats I had enjoyed. I am so sorry, my vegan friends, but I must speak of this without shame.
It must have been marinated. It must have been the grill, it must have the delectable seasoning on every edge. It must be these women. There’s something in their hands.
My mind was racing.
Maybe this pig frolicked in the sun every day, wallowing in ignorant bliss on some farm miles from here until one day, chop, time’s up.
I believe I recall inhaling the next taco.
“Two more, please,” I asked.
My partner was equally overcome with glee. He hails from a land where Tex-Mex is supreme, where taquerias stand on every corner. He’s had a lot of tacos in his day. He’s had tacos in Mexico. He was, on this trip, my resident critic and expert.
“What do you think?” I asked, wiping hot sauce from the corner of my mouth as I listened to the clank-clank of the cleaver on the grill. More were coming.
“These are the best tacos I have ever had in my life,” he said.
We had to test this theory.
We ate about six more between us.
We paid less than $8USD.
We tipped her considerably and warned her, we would be back.
She was as nice as nice could be but I imagined she would laugh at us later to her cohorts at the cart.
Drunk gringos,
We were drunk gringos.
But as the time in Isla wore on, every night, we found ourselves back at the truck. We tried steak tacos. There was no chicken to be had. The steak tacos were excellent, no doubt.
But those al pastor parcels, little gems of pleasure, we stuck with those. Each night for a week, we would show up late, in varying states of sobriety, and politely ask for our fix.
She obliged. We paid. We learned a little more Spanish. We left each night proclaiming our love for each of the women. On our last night in Mexico, we had a surplus of groceries left over and we wanted to thank the women of this most amazing taco cart. We wanted to bag a few items and take them to her. To eat, to sell, whatever she wanted. We just didn’t want anything to go to waste. I wanted to worship that woman.
When we drove by her cart that night, she was nowhere to be found. The cart was closed. The street offered different aromas, including detergent from a nearby lavanderia. It smelled lovely but there was nothing to compare to the smoky, grilled notes that had filled the little street we found her on.
Life is so fleeting sometimes and pleasure, while abundant, is often so tinged with things like shame or guilt. Euphoria is often a rushed experience. Americans are so good at instant gratification.
But on those humid nights in Mexico, euphoria was languid. I will soak up those moments when things get tough, I know. I will squeeze every bit of memory out of that moment, like the sweet piquant nectar of the lime I used to drench those tacos.
Small pleasures. Life is so much about small pleasures.
I prefer my pleasures wrapped in corn.
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