[dropcap size=big]1.[/dropcap]The night is cold but the air is hot on South Main Street. Engines growl. Headlights feel like invitations. LAPD cruisers are flipping U-eys down every side street, prowling. I’m in pursuit of what I’m told could be a tlayuda currently surfacing in Los Angeles that is capable of teleporting me to Oaxaca in my mouth. This night in January is on.
I’ve been trying lately to rely less on my phone when navigating the city. I take a quick glance at a map to get a feel for where I’m going, and imagine the route in my head before driving. I’m looking for a part of South Main, right in South-Central, just east of the 110. South of MLK, but north of Vernon. More or less.
Once on Main, I spot my destination by observing a string of soft bulbs dangling over a verdant wall. That’s the universal symbol in the contemporary city for “Tacos Nearby.” I park and walk to the lights, to a driveway where a hand-painted sign announces: “Viernes de Tlayudas.”
Tlayuda Fridays.