I was going to start with something smart like “street food is the heartbeat of Mexico,” but no. the first time I leaned against a plastic stool on a cracked sidewalk, salsa dripping down my wrist, nothing about it felt poetic. it felt hot, smoky, a little sticky, and honestly perfect.
the very first taco al pastor I ate from a cart wasn’t part of some foodie pilgrimage. I was lost, cranky, feet sore, bus driver had lied about the stop being “just ahead.” (it wasn’t, twenty minutes later I was still wandering.) then I smelled it. meat spinning on a trompo, pineapple slices sliding down, tortillas puffing. I don’t remember ordering. I just remember holding two tacos, lime wedge teetering, my jeans catching the first drip of salsa. snack? no. that was survival.
people call it a snack, but snacks don’t knock you out. one pambazo (fried sandwich dripping in red sauce) had me napping on a park bench, sauce still on my chin. one torta with beans, avocado, mayo — I was done for the night. snacks don’t make you miss your train.
and then there are tlacoyos, flat and stuffed, the size of my arm. ate two once. couldn’t move. stayed on the stool pretending I was “people-watching” when really I just couldn’t stand up.
the chaos is flavor. banda music rattling the salsa bottles. kids running between stools. a guy yelling “dos con todo” while another tries to sell me knockoff earbuds. smoke sticking to my hair.
I once sat on a stool so crooked it squeaked with every bite. didn’t matter. taco was worth it.
rain in Puebla, late night, a man frying churros under an umbrella taped to his cart. cajeta oozing out, tongue burnt on the first bite. didn’t care. best churro I’ve ever had.
ordering is my downfall. too much noise, too many choices. once I asked for suadero, mumbled something, ended up with a quesadilla. not mad. another time pointed at roja thinking it was verde. lips numb, vendor laughing, agua fresca handed to me like mercy.
change is worse. I never have it. always handing over big bills, shoving coins into pockets without looking. once I found pesos in my shoe later.
home recreations? failures. tried a torta with bolillo bread, neat slices of avocado, mayo spread carefully. tasted… fine. but no bus roaring past, no salsa bottle sticky with a hundred fingerprints. no noise. just me and Netflix.
tried esquites once. corn, mayo, chili. burned the pot, alarm screaming, neighbor pounding on the wall. not the same.
street food happens at wrong hours. taco cart glowing at 2 a.m. like a lighthouse. guy next to me dropped his taco, cursed, bought another without missing a beat. tamale guy at 7 a.m. wheeling a pot the size of a spaceship. pozole at midnight, too hot, too heavy, exactly right.
smells that stay. oil, meat fat, chilies sharp in the throat, lime cutting through. jacket reeked of tacos for days. dog sniffed it obsessively, tried to climb into the laundry basket.
once in Oaxaca, two women made memelas while shouting at each other. thought it was a fight. they laughed, shoved a plate at me. best food of the trip. another night in Mexico City, a man selling roses approached while I ate tacos. “for your girlfriend,” he said. I was alone. bought one anyway. stuck it in my water cup on the plastic table.
things I’ve seen sold next to tacos:
batteries, roses, socks, glow sticks, pirated Spider-Man DVDs, once even a parakeet in a cage.
and Brenda, my neighbor, swears she doesn’t “get” street food. too greasy, she says. too messy. except I spotted her at the gas station taco truck, sunglasses on at night like she was undercover. she muttered something about “research.”
sometimes I think street food works because it’s chaos you can eat. but then I bite into an al pastor taco, pineapple sliding down my wrist, and forget whatever thought I was about to have.