The Taco Truck – Part 1: Al Pastor

Priya had eaten four hundred tacos in eleven days, and she was beginning to suspect she would never find the one.

Midnight in Roma Norte. A blue truck glowed under a streetlamp, a queue of taxi drivers and night-shift nurses curling around it. Steam rose off a vertical spit of glistening red pork topped with a whole pineapple, turning slowly.

"One al pastor," she said, at the window.

The cook looked down. He was thirty-two, wiry, with a tea towel over his shoulder and a quick, wry smile. "Where are you from?"

"London. I write about food."

"Ah." The smile cooled. "Then no photos."

"I haven't taken any."

"You were about to."

She put her phone away. He sliced the pork, shaved the pineapple, flicked it all into a warm corn tortilla with a dash of green salsa, and handed it over. Priya took a bite.

She closed her eyes.

It was smoky, sweet, sharp, tangy, perfect. She stood on the pavement in the lamplight chewing slowly while the whole queue watched with interest.

"Well?" said Santiago.

"I would like to propose to your pork."

He burst out laughing, a loud, delighted laugh. "Come round the back."

The truck's kitchen was tiny, hot and fragrant, lit by a single bulb. He showed her the marinade, but not the quantities. "My grandmother's. I will never print it."

"Then I won't write it."

"Why not?"

"Because some things shouldn't be a recipe," said Priya.

He studied her a long moment. "Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Will you stay until we close? I would like to feed you properly."

"Green?" she said, and was surprised at herself.

"Green," said Santiago, grinning. "Very green. Sit."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Orders.