Indescribably Delicious

It is difficult to find words to describe the sensation of utter bliss that I experienced a week ago today, just off of Highway 880 in Oakland, California.

I had picked up my yellow Chevy Aveo rental car at Oakland Airport and was tootling along the road, en route to the bed & breakfast where I'd be staying during my nephew's Bar Mitzvah. A hand made sign caught my eye, a white sandwich board with WATERMELONS lettered in bright red, along with painted images of these juicy delights. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and the colors just popped off the sign. I slowed down. Watermelon sounded good, but what would I do with an entire melon?

The tempting WATERMELONS sign was followed by another handpainted sign that read TACOS La Pinata. Instinctively I pulled over, not even bothering to check with my body to see if it was hungry, parking my cheery economy class car between the Johnny-on-the-Spot and the one picnic table that decorated this gravel-topped lot where the TACOS La Pinata van had positioned itself for lunch.

Not only was I in the right place, I was home.

In line were Central American laborers, out for a quick, inexpensive and satisfying meal. I scanned the menu. A single taco was just $1 to $1.50, depending on the filling - grilled chicken, grilled fish, steak, and assorted pork variations. A man ahead of me received his order, a round plate with four tacos carefully arranged on it, garnished by radishes, pickled carrots, jalapenos, and a shoot of spring onion.

Too excited by the food and too exhausted from my flight to properly remember my Spanish, I ordered two chicken tacos in English.

"What do you want on that?" the friendly man in the van asked.

"Con todo!" I declared, my Spanish emerging. I wanted everything on them.

The man preparing the food took his time to create my dos taquitos, increasing the anticipation. In the meantime, I sipped a Coca Cola, my treat when I'm traveling, and watched as a trio of dark haired and coffee skinned workers occupied the shaded part of the picnic table, where I had planned to sit.

I must have been an oddity, a single white woman buying her lunch at a taco van by the side of a busy road, as I attracted some not unfriendly stares. When the food was ready, I decided to sit at the table, but on the sunny side, creating some space between me and my compadres. I nodded in greeting and then dug in.

One bite and I was in heaven. The tacos themselves were flavorful and soft, double layered to absorb the moisture of the filling, succulent chicken covered with chopped onions and cilantro. Two bites and the first taco was a goner. Within minutes I had polished off my plate and sadly realized that I had forgotten to photograph my sumptuous feast, which had set me back a staggering $3.50.

I would just have to order some more.

I approached the man in the van again.

"The tacos are delicious," I said, this time in Spanish, grinning broadly. "I'd like two fish tacos, please."

I was able to restrain myself long enough to take this photograph. Reveling in this second set of savories on a sunsplashed bench, intoxicated by the freshness and flavors of the food, I briefly entertained the thought, "It was worth flying across the country just for this."