Never...eating...again...

Thursday night was the official Save Our Taco Truck Night, and I felt it was my civic duty to participate. And by participate I mean consume my body weight in chopped meat. For non-Angelenos, taco trucks are exactly what they sound like. It's L.A.'s main street food. Taco trucks are to us as hot dog vendors are to New York - but cooler. They're independent, family-owned and friendly. There is nothing to dislike about a taco truck, unless you happen to sit on the board of supervisors. Then passing legislation to virtually eliminate the ability of these small businesses to operate might seem like a really awesome idea.

"Figure out public transportation for the most traffic-choked, polluted city in the country? Why do that when we can impose jail sentences on taco trucks?"

Ass monkeys.

The outcry has been loud and splendid. Angelenos are piiii-ssed. Partly we're pissed because we love us some taco trucks. Partly we're pissed because the law craps on family-owned business. But mostly we're pissed because we can't freakin' believe this is what the board of supervisors is doing with our money.

So Thursday night was declared Save Our Taco Truck Night, and Angelenos far and wide were encouraged to patronize their local truck, both in a show of civil disobedience and to throw a little extra money the way of these families. Carne asada for truth and justice!

And these are not your average tacos. Warm, soft corn tortillas stuffed with your choice of seven or more different chopped meats, veggies, homemade salsas, topped with a squeeze of lime. I am not lying to you when I say I avoided washing my hands for two hours afterward because they smelled so yummy. It took everything I had not to lick them, lest some bit of spice be left on my fingers.

My friend and I started with the pollo (chicken), al pastor (rotisserie grilled pork), carne asada (beef) and - for me - cabeza (beef head or cheek). Good, all of them. But it was really the cabeza that elicited the moaning. My Canadian buddy at first eschewed the cheek. Cheek isn't for everyone. But my look of rapture was convincing. She was soon into my cabeza and then the second one we ordered after that.

Soon after taking a seat on one of the folding chairs on the sidewalk, our faces tucked into our paper plates, a cop pulled up behind the truck with lights flashing. Not a taco bust but a routine traffic stop. We sat in the glow of red and blue LAPD flashers, munching our way through authentic street food, watching the endless traffic fly by on Venice Boulevard.

It was fitting. It was L.A. It was fantastic.

God save the taco truck.