You told me about Guerrilla Tacos.
I left the city of angels after two odd decades.
I returned for a visit last June.
You spoke to our scholarly assembly.
Most of us were outsiders.
You dissolved us of notions of high and low.
You told us about Guerrilla Tacos.
It was fine dining but for the curbside setting. It mirrored the city you understood as no one else could.
You told me about Guerrilla Tacos. I caught your drift.
Almost a decade earlier, you deciphered Kogi for us.
You wrote in the newspaper I remember aspirationally, when it was on Hyperion Avenue and we ate grease bombs from utilitarian lunch trucks.
“Kogi’s taco is a new paradigm of a restaurant …,” you told us, “… food that makes you feel plugged into the rhythms of the city just by eating it.”
You mastered those rhythms like no one else. The motion eluded me.
You told me about Guerrilla Tacos.
I was destined to go. I consumed the flavors of the city at once familiar and foreign.
Sweet potato and two others no me acuerdo.
I didn’t take pictures.
I left.
I heard the message.
You told me about Guerrilla Tacos.
I will remember.
Andrea Adleman | Cupcakologist 