An Aussie who used to live in LA is informing his countrymen Down Under about this culinary travesty that is going on across the Pacific.
My small reprieve from the malnutrition was the local taco truck whose main clientele were the local immigrant workers on a survival level diet with the taste for a piece of home. I was introduced to the forbidden pleasure of the chiccarones taco, a taco singularly filled with fried pork crackling. I developed a theory that if the taco truck didn’t offer cabeza (roasted cow head) then the van was not worth its garish paintjob, even if you had no plan to eat said cow or the van had it on the menu but didn’t actually ever serve it. I came to suspect that it was a simple code to differentiate between the good taco truck and the evil. This is the sort of madness induced by access to meat after unwillingly enduring a low protein diet.
It is hard for me to think of a more iconic Californian food experience than chowing down on a fresh taco with a squeeze of lime, served from a vehicle that is essentially immobile.