We prepared by drinking a Corona (Light) in the afternoon sun of the first truly beautiful Saturday of an otherwise overcast June. That’s all it took for my light-weight buzz to kick in and accompany Nic and I down Rainier Ave to the taco bus.
In flip flops and shorts and craving another cold beer–it feels like Mexico. It sits in an empty parking lot, just past the crumbly 1960’s apartment complex, where the chain link fence that guards broken down cars, ends. Rounded corners of off-white gleam in the orange-gold light, an old bus turned taco truck–it looks like Mexico.
I stare hungrily at the menu. Past the torta and enchiladas, pause for a moment on the cerviche, only to forget it all when I find the taco plate. $1.20 each–I feel like I’m in Mexico.
We climb aboard the bus to order. Twirl lazily on stools wrapped in vinyl. There’s no taco truck “mystery” of ordering through a window and minutes later the “voila!” of being presented with a styrofoam package you hope will taste amazing. Instead, I watch him grill up carnitas and tortillas as my lunch-less stomach rumbles. A man climbs aboard, he’s called ahead. Nic and I look at eachother–next time.
Moments later it’s ready. No questionable styrofoam, just two paper plates wrapped in foil, steaming with something that smells like a little bit of authentic Nayarit goodness…