The long anticipated afternoon was here, the lunch of the food truck. Food trucks are a new phenomenon in Boston. I began to smell the trucks long before lunch began, and I heard my stomach grumble immediately. At long last it was time and I raced towards the scents.
Outside, the smells were intoxicating, scents of basil mixed with beef, spice and sugar. I ran to the first truck I saw, cheerful red, and promising delicious Mexican food, another thing Boston sorely lacks. I placed my order, two tacos and a tamale. When it arrived I ignored the comments of those around me, and the clicking of their cameras, trying to capture the beautiful meal that would soon fill my belly. The first bite- chicken taco with a perfect mole sauce. Sweet, spicy, & fairly smoky- it was mole like I had always imagined. The chicken stood it's ground against the strong flavor, and offered gamey satisfaction.
A perfect taco to this North Easterner...the flavors of the West lingering on my palate. I looked up and realized that my crush on the Pacific North West was quickly turning into a forbidden love affair. I hope Boston doesn't find out.
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