Los Angeles might be famous for its street vending culture, but the city has not always been as kind and welcoming to street vendors as it is today. As a kid, one of my biggest fears was that my parents and their taco stand would be busted by county health inspectors for selling food they depended on for their survival.
While most of my classmates looked forward to the reprieve that weekends brought, I would brace for the weekly dose of anxiety I felt over the potential citations my parents couldn’t afford and threats of arrest for the type of work they did.
Those fears have simmered over the years as the city has made strides to better embrace its vendors, and my parents have adapted to meet health standards set over the years.
But today, instead of worrying about health inspectors, or any other threat taqueros face in their line of work, I am terrified of the risk my parents run as immigrants in a city invaded by ICE agents that profile hard-working people based on race and color.
My parents became taqueros at the end of 2002. After more than a decade as a manager at Pizza Loca, my dad decided to take what he’d learned from his dad back in Puebla, Mexico, and start selling barbacoa. My mom joined him in the venture, taking on half work and becoming an essential part in the taco business they built together.
Over the past 23 years, the business has called the swap meet its home. My parents have lived out many iterations of their business throughout the years—in all versions, be it completely out in the open or inside a lonchera, they’ve set up shop in the swap meet parking lot. Point at any corner and they probably have a history there.
Recently, my friends and I visited to grab tacos. My friend raved about the tacos de cabeza, saying the soft texture and lack of fat made it some of the best cabeza she’s ever had.
Just like every other time I’ve heard compliments from friends over the years, her comments filled me with pride. Introducing friends to your favorite food spot can be a nerve-racking experience.
Have you hyped the food up too much? Will it live up to expectations? Will you be disappointed if they don't like it?
So much more is on the line when the food is made by your parents. To bring my friends to my parents’ stand and watch them dig in, have a genuinely amazed reaction, and happily dish out compliments is a whole other level of satisfaction.
It’s the kind of praise I grew up on and have become accustomed to. Customers would come week after week, never growing tired of the same food, willing to wait out the lines and slow rising tortillas for a meal.
My parents were respected and lauded for the taste of their food, especially the barbacoa and pansa, which customers would say tasted just like the ones they had back home.
My parents never took a break; they’d work through holidays and heavy rains and heatwaves and illnesses, and just about any other situation, without ever missing a weekend. It wasn’t until my older sister graduated college that we got our first weekend off. But even on their “days off”, the business would never be too far from their minds, as we’d run into customers or race to a problem that needed fixing before the weekend rush.
I was about four when my parents started their business, so the timeline is sometimes a blur. In those first few years, my dad would show up around 5 a.m. after spending the entire night tending to the lamb as it cooked in a pit in a friend’s backyard.
My younger brother and I, still too young to be of any real help, would head to my aunt’s or uncle’s for the weekend, as the rest of my family went to the swap meet.
By Sunday evening, we’d be driven home. As we got older, we transitioned to evening drop-offs at the swap meet where we’d play and complete small chores with the hope that we’d be able to get home before 8 p.m.
Both my brother and I were eventually deemed old enough to join my parents and my two older siblings at the taco stand. I got my first “job” when I was about eight or nine. It was my duty to pick up trash, empty out glass soda bottles, and wipe down tables after customers finished eating.
When my brother and I weren’t needed, we’d be running around the parking lot or wandering the swap meet buying trinkets or attempting to play pool with the few dollars we had earned. There were other kids, also dragged along by their parents, and whose childhood experiences probably mirrored mine, but I was always too shy to make friends.
Some of my first memories of joining the business aren’t even tied to working—they’re from a restaurant my dad rented inside the swap meet so he’d be allowed to rent his usual weekend spot out in the parking lot.
There, they’d sell a mix of Mexican and Peruvian foods. I don’t remember much about it as a business, but I do hold fond memories of hiding out on the red vinyl-covered stools along the counter and drinking hot chocolate during cold early mornings.
I’d sit and work to convince the women prepping for the day that I should be able to change the T.V. to reruns of Disney Channel shows, because the only customers around that early were other vendors busy setting up for the day ahead, who didn’t have time to care about what was on.
In the afternoons, after the work rush, I’d come back around and ask for change to play the arcade games directly across, always taking a few extra quarters.
As I got older, my responsibilities grew. When the crowds got big and the demand for tortillas was high, I would stand next to the tortillera and help roll masa into “bolitas”: little rounded mounds of masa of the perfect shape and size to get into the prensa faster.
I’d try to help count out the tortillas to fill orders of $3, $5, $10, or even $20. When I wasn’t needed, I’d stand by my older brother and help refill a huge tub with all sorts of Mexican sodas or help serve the aguas frescas he’d make in the mornings.
Sometime in my pre-teen/teen years, I became the cashier—it was the worst thing that could happen to an introvert like me.
We had some great customers who were kind and patient, but there were also the ones who would take out their frustrations and impatience on me. Our prices were a topic I was often poorly equipped to handle.
As is the case with street food, not all customers properly valued the work and effort that went into their meals. It was never just a quick weekend of work for my family.
Customers weren’t there to see the time spent cutting lemons, onions, and cilantro, the hours it would take my mom to blend all the salsas, the hours my dad would spend building his 100-pound trompos de pastor, or any of the tasks it took to keep the business afloat.
Customers didn’t realize that leading up to the two days my parents were out selling food, there were five days of prep behind them.
I don’t know that I can say I was always on my best behavior, but I can say we made it through years worth of weekends with a loyal clientele who have cheered on, not only me, but also the rest of my siblings, as we’ve moved on from the taco stand.
Life as taqueros required so much hard work. It still does. It’s not my job anymore, and for that I am grateful. But for that same reason, I respect my parents and their livelihood even more.
Truthfully, it wasn’t until I started writing this that I realized just how positively life-defining being the daughter of taqueros has been. I would need an entire book to detail all the ways growing up at a taco stand shaped me; since I no longer hold any of that teenage angst that made me think I would grow up to resent the family business, I can clearly see how my upbringing gave me all the tools to make it as far as I have, both professionally and personally.
I’ll always jump at the opportunity to share that my parents are taqueros. It contextualizes so many crazy anecdotes and justifies my high standards for tacos. I grew up on amazing food and will forever feel a bit superior in the barbacoa and pastor and cemitas and the rest of their menu that really does taste like the stuff back in Puebla.
I may not have done the food enough justice here, but you can take L.A. TACO’s word for it (and learn a bit about the second location they have).
My experiences will forever inform the way I see and respect the hard work of all street vendors. I will always carry with me the reminder that vendors are real people trying their hardest to make a living in a world that constantly overlooks their sacrifices and dedication.
As ICE continues to sweep through L.A., I hope we’re all reminded to show compassion and support to vendors and their kids, who more and more are stepping up to support and protect their parents.
