Twenty-Dime
Guess who’s back, bitches?!!!!! Yes, I missed you, too. Well, it’s a new year and something happened today that I had to write about. Food trucks. I know what you’re thinking. You’re so two-thousand late, you corpulent, Jew! It’s not so much about the actual food trucks but a place they are congregating, Santa Monica and 14th. Before I discuss the trucks, I want to tell you a little something from work last night.
Now, I know most of you like the NFL, but I’m kind of glad the season’s coming to a close. Because now, my dear friends, you can put back the other three-quarters of your brain you take out from September to February and wipe your drool off the bar. In any case, Kimi was a little down since her mighty Eagles got butt raped by the Dallas Cowboys. I told her to just chase her blues away with liquid depressant and I would cover her shift. It’s no big deal to me. I go in an hour and a half earlier and it allows Gator to smoke weed in the privacy of his own cave prior to the setting of the sun. (He hates smoking at night. Or is it when he’s asleep? Silly me. It’s neither.) It was a tale of two tables. Table five was pleasant, but table four complained more than the interned of Bergen-Belsen. First of all, nothing tasted right. No, I’m not talking about the shrimp that sometimes exudes the aroma of dead pussy. (How do I know what dead pussy smells like? Let’s just say you shouldn’t patronize a pimp who markets half off coupons in the penny saver. Nuff’ said.) I’m talking about Bacardi. I can understand if she didn’t like the taste of the Tommy Bahama rum, which is so fucking old they did product placement for it in the Falcon Crest premier, but this is fresh rum. At least, she settled on cider. Her friend, who was tall and blonde, sent back her French onion soup because it wasn’t browned on top, which was totally understandable. It was when she sent back her Kobe burger because she found a hair in it. I took the burger to the window and removed the long blonde hair, not unlike her own. I looked at the two Oaxacans in the kitchen, one shaved head, the other short jet back hair. Now unless one of them, myself, or Chino, were just banging Morgan Fairchild, that was her mother fucking hair. I pointed this out to the cuntstomer who proceeded to tie her hair back. On to bigger and better things.
When I read on Eater L.A. that the empty lot on Santa Monica and 14th would house food trucks, I knew it would be a great year. One major problem with Los Angeles is that it’s too spread out. Combine that with seventy-five degree weather (take that New York!) and no one wants to journey more than a few blocks for sustenance. I hit up the lot after journeying to the Time Warner office. If you haven’t been, it’s like the DMV with bullet proof glass and cable boxes. There were four trucks when I arrived: Fish Lips Sushi (@fishlips_sushi), Barbie’s Q (@barbiesq), Border Grill (@bordergrill), and India Jones (@indiajonesct). There was a good crowd. I started off at Fish Lips Sushi where I ran into my friend Chris Connelly. (Yes, I’ll pick that name up.) When he’s not telling the saddest sports stories on earth, he’s picking up bbq and a spicy tuna roll for his family. In any case, I got an order of yellow tail and salmon sushi, half a California Roll an half a Spicy Tuna Roll. It was a half a notch better than what you get at a market. If you’re in the middle of nowhere and hungry, you could do worse. Then again you’re in the middle of nowhere. I was sated, but not done eating. I moved on to Barbie’s Q, which I believe is Mayan for you’ll get your food when our calendar ends. I’m not saying it took long but I watched my pubes turn gray while I waited for my combo plate. Some old fucktard who ordered after me wanted to cancel his order so they moved him up the line. I should’ve complained but it is oh-ten, so I cut them some slack. Just before mine came up, the woman said, “It’s worth the wait.” I could’ve walked to Baby Blues on my knees in the same amount of time. My combo showed up. The beef and pork were dry and stringy, but the chicken was amazing. I know it’s just chicken, and maybe the beef and pork sucked so much moisture out of my mouth, but it was juicy and delicious. I would go back for that. I was stuffed but not finished eating. I moved on to India Jones. Alas, they were out of rice. I asked, “Will you be making more?” The sweaty, Pakistani complained, “We’ve been serving four hours straight. I’ll probably take a break.” It’s not like he’s making all the dishes by hand. It’s a rolling, fucking buffet just keep ladling. Actually, the food looked delicious and NBC news raved about the butter chicken. Fuckers took the last of the rice.
I spoke with the owner of the lot and the woman in charge of the Southern California Mobile Food Vendors Association. They envision a rotation of seven or eight trucks, six days a week. Having eight cuisines on one corner gives me a culinary boner. Speaking of food preparation erections, I’m gonna rub mine out. In the infamous words of Adrian Mansbridge, soon to be resident of Green Bay, Wisconsin, “It’s my knob and I’ll wash it as fast as I like!” Happy Twenty-Dime!
