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But the seed was planted: There was an enormous, untapped economic and cultural opportunity to serve authentic, delicious Mexican food in an enchanting place that had little of it.There were crazier ideas — not that I was pursuing those either, but it felt good knowing I wasn’t the craziest of the crazy. In the midst of handmade onigiri vendors, donburi chains, and unagi restaurants, why not sell street tacos?
When readers weren’t carrying it around town in their bags or using it in their kitchen, they could display Taco Wagon on their bookshelf with their magazines and novels. I wanted to offer this magazine as a way to share my gratitude with them and to make new friends. Even when we lacked a common language, we would always have food, music, and laughter.
Food, like music, is the great uniter, a universal language that connects all people despite our differences. My other hope was that would inspire some dinner parties.
Kyoto life wasn’t defined by opposites so much as the harmonious interplay between diverse elements.
My menu would be simple: just two types of tacos (carne asada and al pastor), two types of enchiladas (cheese and beef), refried beans, Spanish rice (even though I never eat it), bean and cheese burritos, and homemade horchata, with or without matcha. Most conveyor belt sushi joints had canisters of matcha on the counter for people to prepare themselves, and my shop would of the same. I thought the world should taste the basic dishes that were so common in California and the American Southwest, just like I believed everyone should taste sanma shioyaki and nikujaga.
Kyoto stands every imaginable thing side by side: quiet wooden temples and jam-packed Starbucks; mochi confectionaries and French patisseries; Buddhist shrines and love hotels; a department store and a hojicha roaster.
The rich, smoky scent of enchiladas would weave seamlessly with the scent of grilled unagi.
Rather than leftover space, this was standard Tokyo efficiency. Chain donburi automats like , and an abundance of udon, ramen, and sushi. When I climbed the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, the restaurant was closed. A small cook station overlooked a clutter of wooden tables.
These places filled my belly with succulent novelties and comforting carbs soaked in fat. Cactus drawings decorated the signs amid Japanese characters.
With the lights off, though, the vacancy felt personal.
Disappointed, I stepped back into the stairwell and leaned my head out the window. Pedestrians clutched cups of coffee in their gloved hands, and a cold winter wind blew through the trees in nearby Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden.