Rant: Best Drunk Food = Tacos
We’ve all been there.
While sticking religiously to our diets, counting every single calorie, and hitting the gym like a red-headed step child, we feel like we have earned the right for a pint or two with the crew after a long week of work and personal sacrifice.
Then it happens. Those two pints suddenly turn into twelve, in addition to three rounds of Jose, and you wake up on the bathroom floor with a grease soaked Hardees bag on your chest and wads of partially chewed bovine wedged against your gums. Ah yes, the return of the drunk food.
Once that firewater hits the lips, we forget all of the news clips about cholesterol, toss aside the Cosmo articles about having a “Flat Stomach by Labor Day”, and basically tell Jenny Craig to go F herself.
We want grease. We want carbs. We want ’em now.
My personal favorite has always been tacos. I have nothing against chain restaurant tacos (except for everything), but gnawing on a microwaved tortilla stuffed with neon yellow cheese and meat that used to be liquid is not my ideal meal after forcing a gallon of jungle juice into my stomach. No… Bring on the taco truck.
My first taco truck experience was in downtown Minneapolis during my sophomore year. After a night of boozing with friends, we stumbled across the stainless steel chariot of awesomeness that would forever change my idea of what a taco should be.
The generator powered lights flickered and dimmed, setting the perfect mood lighting for the lifelong romance I was about to enter into. The scene was perfect. The smell of hand rolled corn tortillas, the joyous banter between the liquored up customers and even more liquored up vendors, and of course the majestic glow that only radiates off of a rotating spit of roasted pig. Yes, my friends, this was no ground beef Taco Tuesday, Azteca taco… This was TACOS AL F*CKIN’ PASTOR!!!
Essentially, tacos al pastor are layers of marinated pork, roasted vertically on a spit, and shaved off to order. It’s ironic that they are named “pastor”, because this was nearly a religious experience for myself.
When we finally got to the front of the line I realized that I couldn’t read the menu. The menu was in english, but I was sh*t faced. So I simply held up two fingers, pointed at the beautiful little piggy, and managed to mumbled “dos, por favor”… Even though the cashier was dead ringer for the ginger Amy Adams.
My tacos arrived garnished with a little cilantro, lime, and a nice spoonful of salsa verde. Sometimes less really is more!
The first bite made me rethink everything I knew about tacos and Mexican food in general. THIS was real. My entire life with tacos up until now, was not. It took me years, but I have finally come to grips with the fact that for 19 years my life with tacos had been nothing but a lie.
I slept in the fetal position that night. Because of sadness not food poisoning mind you.
My romance with real tacos since that night has been hit and miss at best. My college town of Winona didn’t get a taco truck until after I graduated and I have not yet resided in the same zip code as one. Long distance relationships are hard. But if we are never meant to be, taco truck, we will always have that magical night 7 years ago.
And that is why tacos are my favorite drunk food.