The talk of L.A.'s food scene at the moment is a new taco truck that serves its Mexican-inspired fare with a Korean twist. It's one of those crazy fusion things that shouldn't work but does. It's food and culture all mixed up and smooshed together. It's L.A. on a plate.

Upon learning this bastion of coolness would be coming to my decidedly un-cool side of town, I was nearly beside myself with glee. It was all I could do not to start barking and chasing my tail. My husband was less enthusiastic, but if there is one thing marriage has taught him, it's how to give in. There would be Korean tacos. Tasty, tasty Korean tacos.

We circled the block twice, found parking and joined the already swelling crowd just as the truck was setting up for the evening. One of the twenty-something workers elbowed his way through the mob and wrote "Special! Kimchi Quesadilla" on the small dry erase board next to the order window.

Me: "Ohhhh. Specials!"

Husband: (taking one look at the board) "No."

Me: "Kimchi quesadillas!"

Husband: "Absolutely not. Under no circumstances am I eating that."

Me: "It could be good."

Husband: "It cannot be good."

Me: "Could so."

Husband: "Could not."

Me: "I'm ordering one."

Husband: "Fine, but I'm not eating any of it."

Me: "Fine."

Husband: "Fine."

And I did. One kimchi quesadilla - also the tofu, chicken, spare rib and pork tacos. My husband ate the tacos. The tacos went from the merely good (chicken and pork) to the truly excellent (tofu and spare ribs). I ate the kimchi quesadilla. And by "ate" I mean took one bite and began the regret process that threatened to stretch into Easter candy buying season.

You know how Asian cuisine pretty much never includes cheese?

Yeah.

It left a taste in my mouth much like the stomach acid-laced contents of a meal come to call a second time.

(That's writer talk for vomit. It tasted like vomit. And I mean that in the most literal possible sense. Vomit. I only took one bite because, seriously? Who goes back for more vomit?)

Husband: "I told you so."