That ain't right...

One of my oldest, dearest, former friends lives in Los Angeles. She sent me this email yesterday and I think it’s the straw that broke our relationship:

"So I almost called you at about 2:30am your time to tell you about a taco truck.

Chris and I were on our way home from the hospital last night and we stopped to get gas in a sketchy area of LA (think Rodney King, LA riots, etc...).

Coincidentally, it was the same place I stopped at about a year ago when I blew a tire on the freeway and two homeless people helped me change my tire. I have warm and fuzzy feelings about this particular off ramp.

Well... we get off the freeway at Vernon and Flower (you can google map this) and there is a taco truck on the corner. It was not your ordinary taco truck. They had a gyro-looking thing going on with a HUGE slab of pork cooking on a fire with a pineapple on top, out of the way of the fire. They slice the pork off the vertical gyro-like spit and then chip a little bit of pineapple into the air and catch it inside of the tortilla with the pork. For $1.25. Of course I bought one. In one word, AMAZING. I stopped at one because I was trying to be good. Chris ate three.

There was a woman next to the taco truck frying plantains. We may go back tonight."

So you see what I mean, right? It’s obvious I have to cut her out of my life forever. Because, seriously, who does that? What kind of “friend” would taunt you with the knowledge that she was off in the middle of the night eating delicious tacos al pastor on the side of the road WITHOUT YOU??

I think it’s been pretty well documented that I have a deep love of taco trucks. And should I ever decide to turn in my Single Gal membership card and join the Marrieds, I am absolutely, positively doing this. You can totally come, ‘cause at $1.25 a taco the catering bill is going to be super cheap…

So anyway - If, by chance, anyone knows of a taco truck in the greater Atlanta Metropolitan area – could you let me know? That would be swell, thanks. Oh, and bonus points if there’s a fried plantain lady next door.

And listen up little Ms. LA – you’re dead to me.

Unless, of course, you find a way to ship me street tacos. Then we’re all good.