The DEEPER side of Taco Trucks

No, really! It’s the truth of my taco addiction and the search for realness in life and work

“Hi, I’m Glenn, and I’m a taco-a-holic.”

Oh, sorry. Wrong meeting.

Oh, sorry again, this isn’t a meeting. It’s the DEEPER side of things where I’m supposed to share some valuable observations and insights.

Righto.

Okay, let’s try again.

Yes, I’m addicted — addicted to tacos. But not the Gringo style. Not the ones with cheese and sour cream, and definitely not the ones with ultra-tame salsa.

I lived in Los Angeles for 14 years, and during that time I had a friend who lived in East LA who turned me on to the taco trucks of the east side. The kind with Mexican families working the trucks. Usually a grandma or two forming tortillas by hand. The tacos were simple: warm tortillas, carne, cilantro and onion with lime and a roasted jalapeno on the side. Not to forget the chile (the word they use for salsa). It’s hot. Really hot, and full of flavor.

One bite in and the flavor bomb goes off in the mouth. Three to four bites in and the sinuses are running. Six to eight bites and the eyes begin to water.

Well, that was back in the day when I couldn’t fully handle real spice.

Fast forward a few years and I married Maria, a Mexican woman who cooked authentic Mexican food, and she served habanero salsa with almost every meal. The delight of the habaneros took a minute to find, but after a few months I could chow down with the best of them, pilling heaping spoonfuls on every plate and loving every minute of it.

Nowadays, as I drive around Albuquerque, I see taco trucks and I want to stop. It’s somewhat of a mild obsession. I’ve been ruined by too much authentic Mexican food to want to partake of the restaurant versions.

Rarely do I find myself satisfied eating Mexican food in a restaurant. It’s a tamer version with cheese on top of nearly every dish. To my knowledge, people in Mexico don’t put cheese on their tacos. They don’t even put it in their burritos. Definitely not on their beans. It’s not that they (or me) have anything against cheese, but in its proper place — like in enchiladas or relleno.

In New Mexico there is a style affectionately referred to as “New Mexican Cuisine.” At the risk of offending some of my New Mexican readers I’m just going to say that I don’t care for it. It’s like Mexican food smothered with sauce and cheese. To me it overpowers the subtle flavors of the carne, and the sauce is not very spicy. It’s just rich in combination with the cheese. Sorry guys.

So, I’ll admit it. This post is somewhat of a rant, but if you can stay with me for a minute I’m getting to the deeper part.

But before I can speak to the deeper part of taco trucks we first need to unpack what’s not so deep about the typical Mexican restaurant. For starters they’re a business. Which is not to say that taco trucks aren’t, but the stakes are much higher for restaurants. The capital requirements of starting a restaurant are staggering. Your position is fixed. If you don’t get the foot traffic you can’t just drive to another locale that works better. The health codes are more stringent. Staffing is your largest expense, followed closely by the cost of food. Labor and fixed overhead are constant no matter how many customers. 27% of restaurants fail in the first year while 50% fail within the first three years.

This means that shaving corners on labor and food costs is a constant practice, while making their menus more generic to appeal to a broader audience is a vital strategy for success.

Whereas taco trucks serve the minimum viable audience. A single truck may only need to serve a couple hundred people a day to make a living. Fixed costs are comparatively lower while cost to entry is significantly lower.

But what’s the greatest difference? What is the flavor difference (no pun intended) between a typical Mexican restaurant and a typical taco truck?

Hint: It’s not the cost structure. Or at least not directly.

Low cost to entry, mobility to meet audiences where they are, a small physical space, more simplistic menu, and catering to people who don’t require an air-conditioned dining room relates to a different kind of cultural experience. But I’m not referring to the culture of Mexico, but rather the culture of eating standing up or in the car, not being waited on, not requiring a giant plate of food with a diversity of colors and a basket of chips and salsa on the side. No ice water with a wedge of lemon. No margarita. No cloth napkins. Or even a mint with the bill.

It's on the side of the road. It’s simple without the frills. There are no hostesses to greet you at the door. Just a an elder in the back, a young one with English skills at the window, and a husband or brother working the grill.

What does this say about the taco truck aficionado?

Here’s my take. We (and I’m including myself in this category) are the sort that look for a little adventure in life. We’re not looking for the tried and true, but the real and authentic. We do not seek predictability, but spice (in the literal and figurative sense). And most importantly, we’re not so impressed with restaurants with great décor and mediocre food.

We want realness.

No uniforms, or cheesy umbrellas in the drinks, but real people making food they love for people who appreciate the real thing.

Am I sounding lofty? Maybe. But am I being lofty when I’m devouring my tacos in a gravel pull out?

I think I prefer the dance of flavor in my mouth and the satisfying feeling in my stomach to the salsa with a Scoville rating akin to something like a pimiento.

I love realness in life in all its forms — real people, real music (not sampled), real business (not corporate owned with a need to extract profits for headquarters hundreds if not thousands of miles away), and, yes, real tacos.

Restaurants designed for the masses (by necessity) need to be generic and unadventurous to appeal to the many. Restaurant chains exist for the benefit of shareholders, not the families who source the ingredients, cook the food, and serve it with a smile, and not even for the people who eat the food.

Restaurant franchises provide predictable experiences for both the customers and the owners. But such predictability is a direct outflow of following a specific formula. Hence, the absence of realness.

The DEEPER side of taco trucks is that you can’t make it in such a business by being generic. The raw and unfiltered nature of such a business necessitates some measure of realness.

And what does this say for the rest of us? In all our businesses, careers, relationships, families, creative pursuits, hobbies and recreation we have the choice to be authentic and real. Maybe we won’t make quite as much money but the experience both for us and our customers will be richer and more meaningful.

Realness in our careers means we take our work to a level of art. Not just art with food, but art with service, art with approach, art with meaning. Even a CPA firm could elevate their work to art. While I admit, it’s challenging to make art out tax planning, they can make it by tailoring their approach.

Lately, I’ve been having conversations with my roommate about his legal practice and his brand. He, like most small business owners, never thought much about his brand. His current website merely touts him according to his area of specialty, which is not very interesting. Sure, if I need a disability attorney and find his website I might be inclined to call him, but not before looking at few other disability attorney websites to see which one grabs me more.

Then I visited his office and took careful account of the décor. He’s a lawyer, but there’s nothing sophisticated about his office space. No $10,000 mahogany desk, or vaulted ceilings, or glass wall office spaces. In fact, it’s rather rustic, including an unfinished monitor stand he built himself from scrap wood. He has a nice leather sofa in the waiting room, but that’s the only point of luxury in the office. The rest is functional, well organized, and orderly, but not highbrow in any way.

He also doesn’t have a receptionist. No gatekeeper to buffer him from clients. If a client calls they get him on the phone. He’s figured out how to make his one-man operation work, which lends itself to the unique and authentic nature of his brand.

No frills, 30-years of experience in disability, social security and worker’s comp. If he doesn’t think you have a case he’ll tell you. If he sees weakness in your case he’ll tell that too in rather blunt fashion. But he also takes cases other lawyers turn down and finds satisfaction in serving the underdogs, the dispossessed and downtrodden. He’s represented homeless people, people with severe mental health conditions, people who have tried for years to obtain disability for chronic conditions but have been repeatedly turned down. My roomey is a true man of the people. That’s his secret sauce, his authentic realness. He’s the taco truck of disability law in New Mexico.

His business is a true reflection of his personality.

We can all do this if we choose. We can make art of our work. We can be real in our lives and work. Let’s make more food trucks and less McDonalds.

---

If you’ve enjoyed this post please like, share, and subscribe. And thank you for your support.