Tacos

Though many come to mind, this post isn't about the various curse words available for use in Spanish (called tacos). Instead it is a simple reflection on my disappointment with Atlanta's lack of food trucks (mobile restaurants for you p.c. folks). I recently completed a 30 day trip across the United States and discovered that I have been missing out on a beautiful food trend that has been rocking fooder taste buds for a while. All across the southwest and west coast (and any other reasonably developed city) I encountered delightful treats for very reasonable prices. Varieties ranged from tacos de lengua or cabeza al estilo D.F., korean tacos, middle eastern shawarma and gyros, Hawaiian bbq and oh so many Thai noodle shacks. Portland and Seattle were teaming with these things. They had plazas and squares devoted to local food vendors.

So why in Odin's beard, is Atlanta, a metro area of about 5.4 million people not joining the noble cause and rapidly devouring these taste-laden gifts from the gods? To be honest I haven't quite lived here long enough to do the research, so I'm going to start hunting the info. down. Presumably it's the same type of obfuscations that keep me from enjoying a frosty adult beverage on a Sunday should I open the fridge and find that the reason my head is pounding is because my friends and I actually polished off every drop of alcohol the night before.

Let us cast off this unwarranted film sticking to our senses and begin to delight in the exhilirating fare that a simple truck vendor can bring to the urban scene. Feel free to drop any comments here as I am quite frankly unaware of any information that probably would be necessary to write this post.

The first

2010-7-22

The first – Writing your first blog about food is kind of like sleeping with somebody for the first time. You’ve spent hours fantasizing about the glorious arrival of that moment when passion overwhelms your better judgment and you plunge into the experience with all that energy that was bottled up inside. Instead, it turns out to be kind of awkward. Let’s face it, completely letting someone in for the first time is difficult to prepare for; but with time, the experience should become increasingly comfortable and pleasurable.

So here’s my first moment. My allegorical pants just hit the floor… Hopefully we’ll enjoy this more as I continue.

In the arid mid-morning of the Madrid Summer, I hear my two roommates rustling about in our outdated but effective kitchen. It’s a Saturday, so we’re all drowsily recovering from the blurry previous night. I’ve been here for two weeks and already I’m all too familiar with the late night habits of the Madrileños.

I’m sure you’ve already heard of (or if you’re lucky experienced) the decadently mind-numbing tapeo and so I need not go into details about Spanish bar-feast.

On this sun-splashed Saturday I know that when I drift back to the kitchen, I’ll hear the slushing and churning of the juicer being driven into succulent Spanish oranges. Bread crumbs will be scattered about carelessly next to a bowl of ripe tomatoes on our tiny kitchen table. As I creak through the hallway, my expectations are met accordingly, along with the pungent odor of the “embutido” buey (a chewy, irony Spanish cured meat stick).

This particular ritual is actually, a product of Cataluña, the northern region of Spain; although at the moment it is a Colombian girl and Madrileño who have enthusiastically inducted me into their sacred circle. The beauty of the dish resides in its carefree simplicity. You simply take grilled or toasted slices of baguette, country style bread or whatever is around, rub all of the delicious tomato-jelly of a half tomato against the crusty bread and drizzle with olive oil.

I’m not going to go through the classic food porn process of describing each bite to you. Just try it, and do it with damn good ingredients or it will be disappointing. I can’t help but look back on this treat and chuckle at what a Spanish thing it is to do. Laid back, carefree. “I’m just going to take the most savory part of this tomato and apply it to the bread”. “What about the rest?” You might ask. “I’ll just throw it away… when I get around to it. It’s Saturday after all”.

I still love starting my Saturdays with the tomato-smeared bread in the sunshine that streams across my porch. It slows me down, tranquilo, and my memories revert to those languid Spanish days.

That’s it? Already? Yeah, I believe already mentioned that it’s just like the first time…