Hardcore Eats

I'm a fan of the hardcore. Those tough and dedicated individuals who bust serious ass at the threat of life and limb to do what they do. I never cease to be impressed by these near-mystical, stone faced people who are committed to their craft and tend to it unflinching. This is my personal notion of superhuman. You can have your big breasted, steroid freaks who stand around in spandex and baby oil if you like, I'll stick to the heavily calloused, sleepless masses who do their thing rough, gritty, and well.

I drove into the heart of downtown SLC this past weekend, while on a mission for high-grade comfort food. It had been a long day, and long days always call for decadent flavorings that remind one of home. It was around 25 degrees outside, and a substantial amount of snow had just graced my fair bastard city. This was, for all intensive purposes, a miserable fucking day. The kind of day where mortals lock themselves up in their houses, homes, apartments, and scullery basements and spend their day watching bad TV and eating easily accessible crap. And I don't fault them for it. When I stepped outside and found snow on my street, snow on my vehicle, and the bite of cold making my cheeks hurt, suddenly eating potato chips and watching Sex In The City reruns didn't seem like such a bad idea. And it took and extreme amount of effort and dedication just to get me out the door, and into a cold truck just to get some decent vittles. Still, I prevailed. And after five minutes of waiting for things to warm up enough in the vehicle, I was happy to be doing it.

And as I pulled off the interstate and into the heart of downtown SLC, I saw some of the roughest and toughest people I have ever seen in my life. Through the glaze of unmelted ice on a slightly foggy windshield, there they were. Their shops set up in the parking lot of a department store, the traces of steam coming off their carts as they stood in bitter fucking cold making tacos for seventy five cents a pop. On one of the coldest days of the year, the people manning the taco stands were standing there, stoic as ever, flipping corn tortillas and chopping vegetables.

Now I'm a big fan of my local taco stands. Some of the best food I've ever stuffed into my face has come from these arenas of culinary utopia. This is food done simple, and done right. And while the taco stands have had many detractors over the years, dropping nonsense of everything from lack of cleanliness to secretly serving you dog, I for one could die a happy man having nothing but a plate of street tacos before I go into the light.

The taco stand experience is not just about the excellent food, but also the people making it. Every stand I've been to has always had very warm and welcoming individuals, who have their own little stockpile of regular visitors coming for their own private taste of perfection. A good taco stand brings in people from a variety of races, creeds, and classes to sample the wares. It makes for a very social experience. But, for eyes like mine, looking past the succulence and courtesy, reveals a layer of true grit unheard of.

Taco stand cooks always seem to have grizzled, weather-beaten hands, awash with multitudes of cuts, scrapes, and burns. These hands have been serving tacos for so long, that they can take your order, plate, and serve you in under a minute flat. All without their eyes leaving the grill. The faces, although kind and friendly, have a worn quality to them. As though they've been tired for so long, they don't even feel it anymore. And I can imagine that exhaustion is a requisite for the job. Most taco stands keep near ridiculous hours. Ranging anywhere from 7am to midnight and beyond. All the while, searing the same cuts of meat over high heat while standing on hard concrete. There should be no question in anyone's mind that these people can outlast any of us in an endurance match.

And apparently, they can withstand sub 30 degree weather as well.

On a day when most normal rational mortals barricade themselves in their homes underneath blankets and a thin veil of burnt propane, these people were out there. Standing in bitter cold in someone else's parking lot. Parking lots with no trees, no way to retain heat, and no way to keep the cold breeze from sneaking into your nether regions and playing with your unmentionables. And they weren't there in hefty parkas and thick coats, oh no. From the road, you can see them in the white, stained uniform of a cook. No gloves and no hats either. They have the same dedicated look and drive to them on this cold ass day that they would on any other. And I have no doubt that when I got home, and slapped on warm snuggly comfort clothes and cranked up the heat, they were still out there selling tacos.

It doesn't get much tougher than this people.