Tamale Truck

One thing that this urban cowgirl will miss in the (probably) far-off future when she permanently trades city lights for starry nights in the country: street food vans. These are not to be confused with the properly licensed street food vendors selling the food truck equivalent of chain restaurant fare. I'm talking about the mom-and-pop shop run out of a sketchy-looking van parked in an alley. These vans, which have loyal followings, sell homemade delicacies for practically a song. They never hurry, and they never skimp. Germaphobes surely avoid these vans like, well, the plague, but in all my years of partaking in these non- Health Services-sanctioned feasts, I've only gotten seriously ill once. (And it was my own fault. In retrospect, no I shouldn't have eaten gray chicken fried rice sold from an Igloo cooler in a dark corner of a parking garage. Both the rice and the chicken were unequivocally gray--we're not talking just a grayish hue.)

When I lived in Boston, the best sausages with fried peppers and onions were served up in Kenmore Square on Red Sox game days. My favorite sausage van was conveniently parked on my route home from class, so it really was no wonder that I gained the Freshman 15. When I lived in Chicago, my second-story loft had a window that opened into the alley. Every day at noon, a sandwich van would pull into the alley, I'd open the window and toss down a handful of change, and the sandwich guy would throw me a tuna melt. When I lived in DC, my coworker regularly purchased me tasty meat pies or breakfast sandwiches from a guy on her corner (not from one of those bland "commercial" vendors that line Constitution Avenue). Is it any wonder we became such good friends? She is one of the Six-Button Cowgirls. Once in a border town south of Brownsville, Texas, I had the best mini-tacos imaginable, served from a cart in a dimly-lit alley and washed down with an odd-tasting Coca-Cola that was nonetheless refreshing. I still am haunted by those scrumptious street tacos that I am unlikely to ever find again.

I really could go on and on, but I will spare you the details of my love affair with street food vans. I must mention, however, how truly fortuitous it is that, on occasion, a guy will come to the back gate of our Laguna Beach cottage and ask if we want any tamales. Today was one of those occasions. It was noon, and I had just about polished off a column of Thin Mints. The pets were playing on the patio and started to bark. Thin Mints in hand, I peeked out the window and saw a dirty, white, windowless van inching slowly down the street (a sight that looks suspicious to mothers but auspicious to me). "Tamales?" called the guy in the passenger seat. I stopped, mid-crunch. "Yes, yes," I hissed at the Wrangler, handing him his wallet and shoving him out the door. Within minutes, the Wrangler returned with hot, homemade pork tamales, chicken tamales, and chile rellenos. It is true that I generally don't like Mexican cuisine, but oh how I adore van food.