Sunday, October 17, 2010

A Threesome Busting Cherry, Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Food Truck Lines

           Call me Michael, everyone else does.  Also do so because, going forward, everyone else in this blog gets an alias.  Changing names, protecting innocents, crap like that. Thus, Michael is as close as you, beloved reader, will get to normalcy.  Welcome to my world.
My beloved wife Charger Gal had recently developed an unhealthy fascination with Food Trucks.  This fascination had metamorphisized itself via her Twittering with multiple Food Trucks (You know Twitter, the social network where stalking any person, place or thing is not just encouraged, it’s downright hoped for). One of her favorite food trucks is called The Munchie Machine.  Fans of early 70’s Saturday morning cartoons will immediately know this is an offshoot of The Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo. The Food Truck looks just like the famous vehicle and its “mascot” is a Shaggy looking type, complete with expression that screams “Cheech and Chong and Quentin Tarantino characters don’t know jack about pot compared to me “. 
Charger Gal found out The Munchie Machine was going to part of a massive Food Truck event in Valencia, a town that answers the question “Can a group of people in California really be this white?  Why yes, they can.”   She was Hell bent on fulfilling her destiny with The Munchie Machine and their one and only dessert, a S’more.  Accompanying us on this pilgrimage was Charger Gal‘s childhood friend, Dr. Dater.   I have a soft spot in my hardened heart for Dr. Dater:  She is an intelligent, sophisticated woman who uses her medical skills to help those unable to help themselves and sees me as Michael rather than Charger Gal ‘s husband (If you are male and married, you know the difference of which I speak).  Dr. Dater made her way to our place and off we went.
In conversation I discovered that Dr. Dater had never spent significant time in Valencia.  To paraphrase the description of Rebecca De Mornay’s privates in Risky Business, Valencia really is something everyone ought to experience once.  We arrived in the land of cookie cutter houses and well-manicured lawns to hear the masses singing in unison “The bigger my SUV, the smaller my penis”…or maybe it just seemed that way.   The first sign that all was not right in Denmark was the fact we had to park in the overflow area despite arriving scant minutes after the event started.  After walking a mile to the event location, there they were…the entire populace of Valencia en masse.  And despite the fact that the event housed over 15 Food trucks, the space was small enough that even a Nelson reunion tour could sell it out.
We took in the lay of the land with heads that said “Are you effen kidding me?”, and stomach’s that screamed “FEED ME!!!!”  Have you ever been around hungry women?  Enough said.  Dr. Dater is a healthy type and I was looking for something light before delving into the greasy stuff, so we made our way to Fishlips Sushi…Yes, the guy who’s been ripping Valencia for its whiteness went straight to the sushi truck, why do you ask?   We stood in line chatting for 20 minutes before it dawned on us:  Have we even moved?   We had…barely.   On the bright side, we looked about and saw our rate of speed was NASCAResque compared to other lines.  Our dreams of sampling the nectar of many of the food trucks assembled sunk like the Dallas Cowboys dream of a home Super Bowl.  A command decision was needed, but what would combine to satisfy our desires without wasting the rest of our precious time:  Italian? Korean BBQ? Border Grill? FRENCH FRIES!!!
Charger Gal gave her sushi order (Spicy tuna and Edemame, conservative and sure fire) and took off for the line.  Dr. Dater and I killed the time commiserating over what it takes to be fetching enough to convince a potential paramour to fly across country to be a companion for dinner and breakfast.  I had gotten as far as Texas in my singles days; Dr. Dater had reached multiple states that decide Presidential elections.  As we basked in her impressive accomplishments, we reached the window and placed our order.  Now Fishlips Sushi specializes in Temari Sushi, which is the same as regular sushi, except it is presented in the shape of mini balls.  Testicular sushi, who knew?
Dr. Dater and I received our orders and made our way through the huddled masses to Charger Gal.  It was time…time for us simultaneously break our food truck cherries (and really, how often do three people get to bust their cherry together?).   I held up my salmon sushi ball and bit down.
Jesus Christ, it was good!!!!  I mean, really effen good!!!  I realize the thought of Sushi emanating from a mobile kitchen being of the same quality as those found in top of the line establishments boggles the mind, but there is was.  Charger Gal and Dr. Dater wholeheartedly agreed.  We were sold of the power of the Food Truck.
Of course there was still the matter of the line…the slow….sssssslllllllloooooowwww….line.   But the joy of the sushi had propelled us to a different point of view.   Food trucks, you see, are the culinary equivalent of a roller coaster line at Magic Mountain.  The hour long wait may be exacerbating, but the payoff is exhilarating.   Our adjusted mindsets came not a moment too soon as we had found ourselves directly in front of the makeshift path people were using to move across.  I had never had a lot of common ground with Charlton Heston, but there I was, allowing this parting of the human sea to move back and forth. 
The cornucopia of people watching danced before us for 20 minutes before we finally moved past and began to examine the Fry truck.  The combination of fries and sauces boggled our minds.  We decided to mix and match so we could each partake of one another’s personal feast.  Dr. Dater went with regular fries topped with blue cheese, Charger Gal chose Sweet Potato Fries with Garlic Mayo, and I settled on Sweet Potato fries with sweet and sour sauce.  The verdict?  To quote Willy Wonka, Scrumdiddilyumpous!  Two for two on the food truck front!
Dr. Dater proclaimed she was full for the night and I concurred.  A disappointment given my expectation to sample multiple cuisines, but it was closing in on the end of the event and thus it was time…time for Charger Gal to achieve her destiny.  S’more Time.
After a quick trip to the restroom (The fastest moving line all night) we settled into the line for The Munchie Machine.  The excitement on Charger Gal’s face was palpable and contagious.  I found myself growing excited and I wasn’t even ordering anything.  We moved through the line and saw that the listing for the S’more included a choice of Marshmallow flavors:  Cinnamon, Caramel, or Coconut.  Charger Gal was nonplussed.  She’s a plain Jane marshmallow gal.  We reached the order window and the following exchange occurred:
CHARGER GAL:  Do you have plain marshmallows?
WORKER’S WORDS:  No.
WORKER’S THOUGHTS:  White people!
                Dr. Dater made the convincing case for cinnamon and the order was placed.  An unspoken nervousness hung in the air. What if cinnamon was the wrong choice? What if the whole reason for our presence was the only thing that was not liked? The order was shouted out and Charger Gal examined it.  It looked luscious…as luscious as marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate could look. 
She bit down.   A slow motion usually reserved for the climax of sports films overtook us.
She swallowed.   My breath was caught in my throat.
She smiled widely.  Thank God!
Dr. Dater and I both took a bite and I believe Larry David said it best:  Prettay, Prettay good. 
Thus our virgin food truck experience came to an end.  In the end, it was somewhat equivocal to losing your sexual virginity:  Pleasure was had to be sure, but it seemed go by too fast and you couldn’t help but wonder that there must be ways for it to be better.


5 comments:

  1. Ok, you have to know I was going to be a fan of anything you write! Just remembering the status updates when I used to FB...I'm sold...a loyal follower!!! Can't wait to read more! And more importantly, if I ever make it into this thing, what name I may achieve??? XO Shannon

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  2. Finally! I would like to hold the position of your original fan. You, my treasured friend, are gifted! I still wanna be in your first film - even if it is just as an Extra. (Well... unless I gotta wait in line for my lunch at a food truck...) Love, Adria

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  3. The exact reason the Mystery Machine was in fact a truck was because inbetween all the blazing up and orgies they were having in their van during that period of time in the 70's, they were able to afford to buy the drugs they were using since they were living in this vehicle, selling munchies they were cooking up. It can be argued the Mystery Machine was the very 1st licensed food truck business of its sort. Why is this horrendously visually disgusting, illegal alien shelter on wheels, always the one place that seems to have the best food in any remote area of the universe. Simple. Those great cooks, the Bobby Flay's, the Emeril's etc. were not all blessed when creating their current legacies of having these 2500 square foot kitchens, and these $500 dollar sets of steak knives. If anyone really think the Iron Chef Morimoto, who is regarded as the greatest living chef on the planet didn't spend the early years in some little 10x10 hole behind a laundymat in Japan that sold sushi out of the backroom, is feeding themselves great stories of grandure. As my ex told me, if you ever want to eat the best tasting food on the planet, go anywhere that has a Hispanic woman, that is about 4'11 in the kitchen, by herself, minding to her own business, with the chef's hat on. Long live the Food Trucks. They don't look pretty from the outside, but then again, neither do all of us, and that doesn't mean we are all bad.

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  4. Thanks taking time to look over my blog and commenting. I hope you got to try the Scooby Snack from the Munchie Machine. Also, since you're a valley dweller like myself, there will be another Valley Food Truck Fest organized by Wholly Rollers on Nov 12, 13 & 14 in Sherman Oaks.

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