“HEY, C’MON—we’re going to Roberto’s.”
“Wait, what’s Roberto’s?”
“Seriously?”
Freshman year, UC San Diego, spring of 1988. This was before I knew from crispy carnitas and hand-pressed flour tortillas so thin and so laden with fat that I could see through them. Before I had gotten deeply acquainted with freshly chopped pico de gallo, redolent of cilantro and chiles. Before I had come to rely on charred and whacked pollo asado as a college-student lunch-time staple.
Growing up in Washington, D.C., in the late ’70s and early ’80s, to me Mexican food meant Taco Tuesdays, which meant store-bought hard shells, pre-shredded orange cheese, iceberg lettuce, and ground beef sautéed with a “taco-seasoning” flavor packet.
I didn’t get it.
And to be honest, I didn’t get much back then. I considered…
