by Matthew Jaffe, Sunset senior writer
These are the slogans that have moved nations and changed the world:
Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or give me death.”
The Spanish Civil War’s “No pasaran.” They shall not pass.
And now, the rallying cry of the huddled masses yearning to eat cheap while waiting in line at taco trucks throughout Los Angeles:
A law is about to go into effect in Los Angeles County that would require taco trucks, those meals truly on wheels that with their blue rooftop vents and paintings of Our Lady of Guadalupe are as much a part of the L.A. landscape as palm trees and botox, to move locations every hour or face $1,000 fines or even jail time for their owners. The rationale for the law is the idea that restaurants lose business because taco trucks can undercut their prices.
Without debating the law’s merits, it’s a reminder of the role that these trucks and tacos play in the life of L.A. And not just in East L.A., where restaurant owners have been most vocal, but throughout the city. From Whittier Boulevard to the lofty climes of Bel-Air, home to a fleet of taco trucks that sets up along Mulholland Drive just east of Beverly Glen, wherever there are people looking for good and quick eats, you’ll find these camiones de carnitas, these maquinas con machaca.
I’ll hit taco trucks on occasion but there was a time when I was eating at one almost daily. Back then our office was located in the Mid Wilshire district, where a couple blocks of buildings had been demolished for construction of the Vermont and Wilshire Red Line station. We had virtually no lunch choices, except for a taco truck operated by a guy named Steve. The Truck, as it became known simply and reverentially, emerged as our local cantina and Steve, who greeted just about everyone with an improvised song, was our angel of mercy.
The food? Pretty darn good, especially the Macho Burrito, an assemblage of ingredients that reduced afternoon productivity throughout the office due to a sleep-inducing mass and density. The burrito was a favorite of a co-worker, one Mr. Trumbull, who accomplished the greatest eating feat of those years, when he followed up a macho with Steve’s famous Texas Pattie Melt.
This gastronomic event came to be known by office historians as “The Rumble In The Trumbull.” But I digress.
I recently headed out on a day of taco tasting, hitting several trucks as well as a favorite stand, Yuca’s in Los Feliz. The taco truck experience was once largely a matter of local knowledge and personal experimentation but thanks to internet sites such as The Great Taco Hunt, the accumulated wisdom of the L.A. taco underground has gone global. A veritable Tacopedia.
By the time I reached Yuca’s, I was stuffed but I couldn’t resist a couple of their carne asada tacos. Yuca’s is a hut that despite a fixed location shares traits with its more mobile cousins. It sits on the edge of a parking lot with al fresco seating, if one can be that grandiose, featuring shaky tables and mismatched chairs and stools. Yuca’s founder, Socorro, was on hand to take the orders. She waits outside the hut next to a poster of James Dean that for some reason is propped up against the wall along the ground. Socorro writes down your order on a paper plate before handing it off to the staff. Drink choices are limited: milk, coffee, lemonade, and orange juice. For anything else you go to the liquor store across the lot.
The tacos? Close to perfect and wrapped in soft and steamy corn tortillas, with a marinade so tasty that there’s no need to embellish with hot sauce. I walked back to my car, which was parked in front of a wellness spa that touted itself as, “Your sacred place of vibrational bliss.”
I don’t know about the vibrational part. But sacred and blissful is a pretty good description of the Yuca’s experience.
