Some very depresseing *ish* has gone down in my life that is making it no-so-delicious at the moment. It may or may not have to do with my job, but if you guess that I am both shaken and stirred by the unexpected departure of someone from one of my many gigs to whom I’ve looked up and held in the greatest esteem for the last six to eight months, I certainly wouldn’t say you were wrong.
How’s that for being vague and extraordinarily negative?!?!
I can’t get into details about any of it. None. Don’t ask. I might break down in prissy little tears or something weak like that. I’ll get over it.
There. It’s been gotten over.
Now I can give the quick rundown on the dinner that some of us had to console ourselves. We originally tried going to La Cabana, a nabe-ish Mexican joint in Venice that I’ve visited and liked for what it was. Apparently, the entire nabe of Venice also likes La Cabana for what it is and suddenly decided, all at once, to go there for dinner on the same night. The place was packed, and by packed, I mean, well, it was packed.
Of course, it was packed at close to 10 PM, which means we were starved. I don’t “do” dinner at 10 PM. The latest I “do” dinner is maybe 8:30 PM; 9 PM if I have to shower. If I “do” dinner at 10 PM, I’ll either be very cranky or very passed out. Or both. “How is that possible,” you ask? Trust me, I can get so cranky-ass bitchwhiny that it shows even if I’m unconscious from low blood sugar.
There were long faces all around when we realized that La Cabana was going to be the physical death of me and pretty much anyone who so much as looked at me with a raised eyebrow, not because we weren’t going to eat average Mexican food, nor that we wouldn’t have the opportunity to flirt with the bow-tied waiters who look like they’ve been working there since the Gold Rush, but because we were looking forward to drowning our sorrows in about a half dozen margaritas. Each. Okay, three for me and three for everyone else. Fine! All six for me, dammit, but I was really sad, okay?!?!
We re-grouped on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. We’re strategic like that. We could either run into La Cabana and scream “Fire!” to move our names up on the list or… taco truck around the corner! Obviously, we didn’t want to get arrested.
It’s been a long time since I’ve taco trucked like the inner ghetto girl that I am. Walking up to the side of La Oaxaquena on Lincoln Blvd brought back fond memories of…nothing! No memories, because I’ve only ever eaten at taco trucks after having become completely, classily trashed from happy hour started early out of stressperation (that’s “stressed out desperation” for the laypeople). If it were a regular night out, I wouldn’t be that drunk until 2 am, at which time, I make a dirty visit to Benito. This time however, we were only high on the low of the situation.
We got all manner of tacos, burritos, and a quesadilla from the truck, as well as some savory words from a “friendly” homeless passer-by. We promptly returned home to make the requisite accompanying margaritas. And maybe hose ourselves down. Make no mistake. La Oaxaquena has an “A” rating. Lincoln Blvd does not.
The food, for being served on styrofoam trays that look like slightly more sanitary urban cousins of those machine separated poultry trays lined with blood-soaked toilet paper in the grocery meat section, looks all kinds of gourmet when you take it home, even if you’re standing around a center kitchen island eating straight from the containers with flimsy plastic forks. Maybe we were too depressed to care. Maybe we were halfway into our margaritas by the time we got everything unwrapped. Maybe it was the gorgeous blanket of guacamole and stunning sliced radish garnish!
The burrito was quite enormous – one was enough to give a filling taste to each person. The two types of tacos – carnitas and carne asada (I think) – weren’t bad either, but I was most sincerely impressed with the quesadilla. Was it really that much better than say, Baja Fresh? Hm, maybe a little, since the tortilla was much thinner and flakier, but it was about one fifth the price.
I’ll have to remember that for the future. You never know when life is going to hurl lemons at you and force you into a price-conscious, instant ramen eating, taco trucking “professional” food blogger.
** a year ago today, we went to ferry plaza market, to market because i’m a fat pig **
** two years ago today, we did figure eights at asian kitchen **