It's a point of pride, perhaps even occasional bragging, that I'll eat and like just about anything. Organs, heads, feet, blood this-or-that, bugs. Just no brussel sprouts, please.
It's 1AM. Long day of work. Starving. No better time to hit up my fave taco truck.
Located on Western Ave and Lexington, just South of the 101 freeway on ramp. Parked in the lot of a small mechanic shop, East side of the street. There are two trucks---the other one makes burgers and sandwiches. This truck is the more Northerly of the two.
These guys shovel out great stuff. Sweet pastor, crunchy, toasty carne asada, moist and tender lengua. But I'm feeling brave; bloody, buggy, organ-y brave. It's time for my first brain burrito.
"Uno burrito de sesos, por favor".
The cook cocks his head and flicks an eyebrow at me. I will not be deterred.
Three minutes and $3.50 later, I dig in.
The first couple of bites are good---mild, beefy flavor, salsa with some attitude. About a third of the way through, the consistency starts to turn my stomach: each bite gets more squishy and slippery, akin to eating overcooked noodles wrapped in a tortilla. I flick on the dome light of my darkened jalopy. Rice, beans, lots of wormy brain. I force a couple of more bites and chuck the rest.
I hate to admit defeat, but the dam broke. I wimped out. Not the truck's fault, as their grub pretty uniformly kicks ass. I can only assume my fortitude failed me.
Mrs. rabo, who finds all of this extremely amusing, informs me of my errant ways.
"You eat that stuff in a taco. Not a burrito. Tacos only."
Is this true, folks? Could I possibly learn to love this stuff, if eaten correctly, and perhaps, at another establishment (for eg. Grand Central Market)? Are there brain lovers out there, amongst my fellow and beloved Los Angeles Hounds?
Epilogue: I wake up in the morning, ravenous. I jet over to SAPP COFFEE SHOP for The Breakfast of Champions---Boat Noodles with The Works. Offal-ly good stuff.