I don’t know about you, but when I think about ‘street food’, I get excited. Nevermind the consequential bowel issues that can come along with it, especially in foriegn territory, I see street food, I want to eat it. Period. That applies to hole-in-the-wall joints, fast food carts, someone peddling food off of their bicycle, moped, motorcycle, boat...it doesn’t matter. I want it. 

Imagine my inner turmoil when I moved to Mexico. So much street food, so little time, and only one stomach. If there was a hell, this would surely be it. On one of my many outings, I spotted a hole-in-the-wall that deemed worthy of trying,  Was it the line waiting for a table, the plastic christmas table covers, or the prevalent smell of delicious deep fried foods wafting through the air, or even the lady hand making the tortillas before stuffing and frying them, I cannot be sure. Truth be told, it was all of it. After spending about 10 minutes in the line waiting for a table, my moment came. It was time to order. Every table had small boxes of Media Crema (kind of like a thinner creme fraiche or thicker half & half) and hot sauce were on the table to add as you like. The menu was placed on a couple of walls, that ranged from quesadillas, to tostadas to salbutes to sopes, with your choice of fillings. On another wall menu, there was an extensive list of aguas or liquados that you could choose from. I went ‘balls to the wall’: Give me one of each, and a large watermelon water (all in my butchered spanish, and proudly).