This column will explore how food can make or break your day as a college student dealing with God-knows-what and some insight on where to dine to decrease your chances of breaking it. It’s 85 degrees outside and your dad is not only refusing to turn on the air conditioning, but insisting that the air from outside isn’t that hot — despite feeling like a hair dryer blowing directly in your face. Fortunately, the fruit stand on the corner is cheaper than the gas that the air conditioning was going to “waste.” I remember begging my parents to pull over on dry August afternoons so I could get one of those deliciously affordable cups of some of the freshest fruit I’ve ever had, or darting out the door when hearing the ice cream truck’s song drifting down the street after that mandatory two-hour post-beach nap. Nothing tastes better than that oddly malnourished-looking Spider-Man popsicle when you’re barefoot on way-too-hot asphalt. And a more recent development for myself, the jingling of the cart selling Tostilocos — the kind you have to get every time you hear it. Watching her slice the bag open sideways, forming a little makeshift bowl to pour in the chamoy, crunchy cucumbers and Japanese peanuts, is a ritual that will always make your mouth water. If you grew up in places with vendors like these, consider yourself lucky. You now have cherished memories that will last you a lifetime and a certain group of people to thank for it. Those memories were often hand-sliced, poured and prepared for you, by immigrants. People who work tirelessly to provide for their loved ones in a country that often treats them like criminals. As much as I love to talk about food — and could honestly do so every second of the day for the rest of my life — there are pieces of history that must be understood to fully appreciate certain meals. In Los Angeles, it’s hard to think of a single restaurant where your $35 pasta arrives at a candle-lit table without passing through the hands of someone who is an immigrant themselves or closely connected to one. The great folk musician Woody Guthrie wrote “This Land is Your Land” in response to the ridiculously timed, seemingly patriotic release of “God Bless America.” While “God Bless America” is a sweet song upfront, in 1938, whose home-sweet-home actually was it? Guthrie sang, “There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me; sign was painted, said, ‘Private Property’; But on the back side, it didn’t say nothing.” That line points to the country and her hypocrisy on the promise of freedom and equal opportunity, ignoring the barbed-wire fences that keep certain people out. “This land was made for you and me.” Not this land was made for me and my waspy family… While I know it can be difficult to find time to protest or figure out what steps to take to support people who are affected by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, I have a small suggestion: support their businesses. When I worked in the Arts District, by Little Tokyo, we used to get off work pretty late and didn’t want to go very far nor sit down at a fancy restaurant at 11:30 p.m. The thing that really got us through service was the crispy fried fish tacos we agreed on from Doña’s. The food truck, officially called Doña Estela, usually makes its way around the district, open long hours, feeding whoever shows up. This truck is known for their mariscos, but they do it all. One of the best tacos I’ve ever had was their fried shrimp taco — a deep fried shell, a crispy and perfectly browned shrimp mixture inside. Not a lot of frills with this taco because they just aren’t necessary. Coming with a bright green slice of avocado, the only thing I would recommend adding is one of their salsas and lime from their very stocked salsa bar. I hate to admit this, but I can be extremely particular with cooked fish, I just feel like it doesn’t taste right most of the time. That being said, they have a fried fish taco that was so good it became a regular order for me. With a soft corn tortilla, lacy-crusted fillet with a steamy, flaky center and the crunchy fresh slaw on top, it is truly out of this world. These are the types of businesses we as a community should be supporting. This is a locally run, independent Mexican food truck that works endless days to provide the sort of experience I try to find in all of the places I go. You have to eat to survive, so you might as well try something handled with care and from someone who cares about you as a customer. America has fallen on dark times and it is up to us to screw in the lightbulbs. Love thy neighbor, remember people? We are all human, we love, we cry and we eat.
