san bruno taqueria

I open the door to a warm fog of talk and smoke. Outside, cars speed past dusty auto shops. Inside, laughter mixes together with the syncopated cumbia beats and the sizzle from the grill.

Surveying the menu, I spot some early green flags. They got cabeza, tripa, and lengua on the menu. Al pastor happens to be squeezed in small handwriting right in between all your carnal desires. The boys have been talking this spot up for the last few months and I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

A waiter comes out the back yelling with a michelada poured in a frosty goblet one might associate with a tiki bar named after some Jimmy Buffet song. We’re definitely in business here.

When it’s my turn to order, I lean into the classic.

“Al pastor super burrito. No sour cream and a cup for water.” The register obliges and starts scooping out some tortilla chips while I wait.

After barely managing to find an empty seat, I start waiting in the next line for salsa. Taquerias are like hot pot places—don’t trust them unless they have a sauce bar.

After scooping up some pico, verde, and roja I sit back down to take in the atmosphere. Yep, this checks all the boxes. The type of spot you just want to root with all your heart and soul for a knockout.

“Order 99 noventa y nueve!” The homie rings as he hands me a red tray with a chrome log masterpiece lying inside.

Peel that double foiled wrapped joint back to see a toasted tortilla and sink into that first bite. Pillowy tortilla, crispy al pastor, and tangy pineapple flood the senses. I peep in to see they melted the cheese onto the giant tortilla and griddle fried the pork before folding. Fuck why did I ever leave this beautiful state.

I transport back to the summer of 2007 where I tasted my first al pastor super burrito with my friend Alan. Pubescent bravado brought us together as friends that summer before freshman year in a class called “Living Skills”—as if summer school could ever teach you what it means to be living.

You could say we took our education to the streets by biking a few miles through the industrial part of town to a tried and true called La Bamba. The order back then was the same as it was today.

Up until that point, the closest thing to Mexican food I had tried was Chipotle with my brother and fajita leftovers from my mom’s office meeting catering. But as newly minted high school badasses, we felt inclined to barrel down Old Middlefield Way in mountain bikes our bodies had outgrown towards Flavor Town.

Some studies suggest that your adult musical tastes are drastically set in the adolescent stage of your life. Something about sounds being most earth shattering when you’re that age. Maybe food is the same thing. Foods from the formative years are the same reason you blackout when you hear Sugar, We’re Going Down come up on the queue.

Halfway through I need a second to breath. Wait, what was the original gameplan we agreed to? I was supposed to only eat half of this 2000 calorie abomination and eat the other half for lunch tomorrow. But no one man can deny his own greed. Just two more bites.

I suppose we all take it for granted when it’s all around us, but miss it when it’s gone. There is no love without distance. No yearn without neglect. After all, things like this hit different when they’re out of reach.

I think more about my IBS which probably manifested from consistent meals like this as a kid and take two more bites. The pressure on my waistband finally pulls me out of the ring before things get messy. Pack up, drive home, and onto the next trip down memory lane.