Because this is California and this is what they do here.
Living on Route 66 mostly means retro traffic signs, but it also means sunshine and retro cars.
Beautiful cars.
I suppose cars mean more to a person and a culture that spend so much time stuck in traffic. I am not of that culture but I think I could learn to appreciate it.
Like any good art, I don’t really have to know what I’m looking at to know if I like it.
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It’s just down the street from Dodger stadium, which I did not think about till I found myself in a string of stagnant cars filled with people wearing blue hats. I wasn’t there for the game, I was there for mole’.
Standing in line with a bunch of hipsters I had plenty of time to check out the chalk board menu and its list of creatively named entrees, none of which looked familiar, I decided to do what all smart people do in new situations; order the sample platter. Now my not understanding the menu may have had more to do with my lack of Spanish than their creativity, but I tend to trust anyone who states on the menu that they don’t adjust the recipe. they know what they are doing and that is what you go there for.
From the menu: “Chiles Toreados-Habanero, serrano, jalapeno, thai, chiles blistered together over high heat. Served on top black beans. Adjustments kindly declined.”
And horchata, always order horchata. Their’s was the most cinnamony I have ever had, in a good way. Good enough to make up a new word; like cinnamony.
If this is the result of immigration…
then LET THEM COME! The southern end of the Italian market is no longer Italian and I am 100% fine with this. Thanks to affordable horchata concentrate I am on my way to Texas to make a speech, “Mr. Obama, tear down this wall!”
Brohammas 