I’m sure when Louisiana-born Dale Hawkins wrote Susie Q in 1957, the last thing he thought it would spark was a Nola, Louisiana food truck (with a name that literally gives new meaning to the word food porn: Susie Q’s lunchbox, indeed) that sat in a parking lot in the
What’s to say about the Sanguchon Peruvian food truck that hasn’t already been said? I don’t know. All I can tell you is that the Chicharron sandwich, while being Peruano, tastes like a carnitas burrito, sans tortilla. Or, a torta, sans avocado. Their buns are, where do they have these
I don’t normally like cupcakes. At best, I think they’re a great mobilizer of sugar into the system of greedy 5th graders during holiday parties with classmade, construction paper, chain link streamers. Well, that’s the only time I made and consumed cupcakes. Then, when the cupcake craze swept over America
With my hometown dining companions trailing behind me as I scurried through the Market St. mass traffic of vagabonds and ill-forgotten street pharmacists, it’s impossible not to spot the lone foreign flag hanging outside the door. As a self-proclaimed unpatriotic citizen, the flag represents more than nationalism. The flag
I remember living on Valencia St. when KFC was still on the block, junkies constantly shouted above the bell of the nearby church and Lost Weekend had half-off Wednesday and VHS tapes. Then, the gallery attendants below me started to leave traces of hispterdom: cans of PBR. They were everywhere.