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You might tell me, I like tacos. Sure. I know. I grew up eating tacos, too. But, my gringo friends, even you Hispanic friends who grew up in the United States of America, I'm here to tell you, you don't REALLY know tacos until you've eaten street tacos, that is, tacos sold on the street in Mexico.

Yeah, I know the gringo taco. The crispy shell heated toasty in the oven. Hamburger browned on the stove top with a package of spices and a cup of water added. Lettuce, tomato, onion, yellow cheese. Maybe some salsa on top. Hey! This taco has its place. I make them myself; honest, I do.

But friends. Mexican street tacos.
Bistek and carnitas and picadillo. Barbacoa on the weekend. Corn tortillas hot off the griddle, even better, fried in front of you. Onion and cilantro chopped fine. Shredded cabbage. And salsa. (I take the green. Almost every time.) Don't ask the guy if the salsa is hot. I promise you he'll tell you, No, no pica mucha. He's probably lying. Oh, he's not deceiving you on purpose. He'll swear that really, it's not hot. To him, nothing short of a hellish spice inferno would be hot. Pace Picante Sauce is water to him.

Start with a handful of napkins stuffed under your plate so they don't blow away. You'll need them, because the juices from the meat and from the salsa will drip and somehow, defying the rules of science, these thin sheets of paper shrink when they absorb. Don't forget your soda in a bottle, thin rivulets of water from the cooler dripping down the outside wall. Probably the tacos will come to you in a plastic basket- give back the plastic basket when you finish. After you finish scooping up everything that fell out with your fingers. After you finish licking your fingers because you want to taste every last bit.

Tacos. More tacos.