The Last Taco Truck in Silicon Valley
"Not so long ago, there were a few dozen taco trucks roaming this valley, the way the bison roamed the valley eons before. Now, there are no bison in Silicon Valley, and only one taco truck."
Thank you for reading Novella with Michelle Richmond. As we round out the year, I thought I’d share a short story that is not available in either of my published story collections. This short story originally appeared in CNet’s Technically Literate, edited by Janis Cooke Newman.
And if you’re looking for something to read in 2024, you might enjoy The Best Memoirs I Read This Year.
I am speaking to you from the back of a taco truck, where I am being held against my will. My hands are cuffed, my options slim. There is much to discuss. There is much at stake. Should I fail the task that has been set before me, I fear that everything I hold dear will be taken away. To make things worse, there is not a taco in sight. My stomach is grumbling and my eyes are watering from the lingering aura of the Red Savina Habanero, El Taco Hombre's secret ingredient, which is no secret to me. But El Taco Hombre is not cooking. No, he is pacing, he is agitated, he has turned from friend to captor. It is an ugly business.
Before I explain to you how I came to be captive in the back of a taco truck at the junction of Saratoga Avenue and I-280, beneath an underpass in San Jose, California, I should tell you that I like tacos, all kinds of tacos. I like fancy tacos, I like cheap tacos. I like fish tacos, beef tacos, chicken tacos, pork tacos. I like them all.
And yet, in my mind, there is only one true taco. It's the one that comes from a taco truck and is eaten in a parking lot out front of your office or school or library or gymnasium or corner bar. It's a soft flour tortilla, as messy as it is delicious, stuffed to overflowing with fish chunks or chicken chunks, a little salsa, some guacamole if you're lucky, shredded cheese (both yellow and white), perhaps a pepper of unknown variety. It's served in tin foil, or on a paper plate, along with a few paper napkins, and there is no polite way to eat it, no way to appear pristine or ladylike or precious. In this sense, it is a democratizing food. Everyone, when eating from a taco truck, exhibits a kind of primitive hunger, a daring loss of etiquette. It could be said that the taco truck is the great equalizer.