NOTE: I wrote this story back in 2006. It’s all fiction, except for Fuel City. They have good tacos there. Just like back home. IMAGES borrowed from the Fuel City website.
The middle-aged man had only been in Dallas for a couple of weeks, but had already been longing for the Mexico City type tacos he was used to buying at the place where he last lived. After inquiring with a few folks that he thought would know where he could find such south of the border cuisine, he ended up at a taco stand not far from downtown Dallas.
The place where he was told to go was a fuel station, someplace in the proximity of I-35E and Industrial Boulevard. “The taco joint is on the side of the building,” he was warned. “The tacos are okay, they’re not great, but they’re sort of, in some ways, like the ones you get in Tijuana.”
Once there, the middle-aged man noticed the large “Tacos” sign on the side of the fuel
station’s building. After parking his car and standing in line for a few minutes, he was confronted by a no-nonsense, young Latina taking the taco orders.
“What will you have?”
“What do you have?” the middle aged man asked.
“Tacos, as the sign says. Beef, chicken or Al Pastor,” she replied.
“One of each,” he told her. “How big are they?” he asked.
“Not too big,” she told him. “Not for you, anyway. You’re a big guy.”
“Make it two of each, instead,” he added.
“It’s $6.80.”
“Here,” the middle aged man said as he handed her the exact amount of money. “You have radishes, right?” he asked.
“We do,” she replied and left the booth to go to the kitchen to fetch a previous taco order.
As the middle aged man waited for his tacos, he noticed that the next person in line had indiscreetly been staring at him. He didn’t know why he did it, but it bothered him, so he decided to make some small talk with the person.
“How’s the food here?” he asked the man behind him.
“It’s okay.”
“You come here often?” the middle aged man asked.
“Everyday.”
“The food must be good, then.”
“It’s okay.”
“Someone said the tacos were good here,” the middle aged man said.
“You’re not from here, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Just got here a few days ago.”
“You’re not from Texas, either, are you?”
“How can you tell?” the middle aged man asked.
“Easy. You’re wearing Dockers. Mexicans from Texas don’t wear Dockers.”
“Dockers? Are you talking about my pants?”
“Yes. You won’t find a Tex-Mex wearing that crap. Dockers are for bolillos.”
“I’m not a Tex-Mex,” the middle aged man replied.
“You’re not a bolillo, either. You must be from… I know. California.”
“What makes you think I’m from California?”
“The radishes. We don’t eat them that much here. Too expensive.”
“You gotta be kidding. Tacos without radishes on the side are no tacos,” the middle aged man replied.
“Not in Texas. Too expensive. What part of California are you from, anyway?”
“San Diego.”
“No wonder. Been there. And they eat radishes there. Especially across the border. At the taco joints in Tijuana.”
“What were you doing there?” the middle aged man asked.
“Marine boot camp. And training at Camp Pendleton. Had my fill of your Cal-Mex tacos.”
“Did you like our food?”
“Hell, no. Bland. No character. Plain. Bolillo food. Especially those Rubio fish tacos. Aghhhhh!”
“You gotta be kidding,” the middle aged man said, using the phrase again. “Rubio’s has the best Baja tacos north of the border.”
“Maybe. For rich white folks. Bolillo food.”
“Too bad you didn’t like Rubio’s,” the man said, adding that San Diego offers a lot of choices when it comes to Mexican food. “Like Casa de Pico and all those restaurants at Old Town.”
“We don’t eat that rich bolillo crap here,” he said. “We’re in Texas.”
As the middle-aged man was about to continue his conversation, the young Latina at the window handed him his food and began to take more taco orders from other customers. As he inspected the container, he noticed that she had not given him any radishes.
“Sorry, Miss, I think you forgot the radishes,” the middle aged man said.
“I didn’t,” she replied. “You didn’t order any.”
“I thought I did,” the man said.
“No, you just asked me if we had radishes,” the woman explained. “And I said that we did. But you never ordered any.”
“Okay, can I order radishes now?” the middle aged man asked.
“Yes, you can. It will be three dollars plus tax. Make it $3.24.”
“You gotta be kidding,” the middle aged man said.
“I’m not. Radishes are expensive,” the young woman replied. “Besides, we don’t care too much for that crap here. We’re in Texas.”
“So, why do you have them?” the middle aged man asked.
“For bolillos that have gotten used to them after eating them across the border,” the young woman said. “We carry radishes mainly for them. They can afford them.”