Tin Fork

"Cenosilicaphobia! I’m suffering from Cenosilicaphobia!” I say. “Do something!” Scottish Annie ignores me. She’s scanning Agua Caliente Boulevard like Columbus searching for India. “Ceno...? Och. I canna see a single food truck.” Hmm. Finally I ...

“Sobador,” says the hand-painted sign beside me. It gives a phone number. This is on Logan Avenue. I’m standing in the line, as you always do here. Yes, even in these tough times, Las Cuatro ...

“Want to try a real Mozambique stew?” says this guy with his dreads gathered in a crocheted rastacap. Mozambique? Oh yeah. Africa. Coast. Southeast. ‘Capital’s Maputo, right?” “Right!” He says. “Nobody knows our capital.” Even ...

It’s that meat slicer. Whirring away. If it hadn’t been for the thin waves of blushing beef it was peeling off, I would have manfully resisted the temptation. Instead, here I am, inside Thorn’s awesome ...

Argentina? El Salvador? Empanadas? Pupusas? What’s the difference? I’m wandering, wandering, and wondering as I wander. I’ve just come down from City College. Had this crazy notion that their cafeteria might be open. What I ...