The year was 2001, and I had (begrudgingly) found myself smack-dab in the middle of a friend-of-a-friend's birthday party--- when suddenly, as if sent by Quetzalcoatl himself, the most (MOST) beautiful carne asada 3-piece, street-style taco platter was placed before my person. There carnage, the fear--- I declared victory over the birria-soaked battlefield, and slept soundly knowing I would continue the salsa scented slaughter every other Saturday night for the next few years. Should you ever find yourself in Vegas, the place is Casa Don Juan (on Buffalo). Tell 'em Erin sent ya.
Fast forward to tonight--- I had just finished my nightly smoke, and was tucking into a game of Search and Destroy on COD--- when my stomach began to hungrily protest. The visage of Casa Don Juan's sunny interior, and hammered-metal bedecked walls flashed before my eyes, and I thought of one thing:
Carne asada 3-piece, street-style taco platter.
Which brings us here, to you, dear reader. After decades of searching on every coast, plain, and well-treed mountainous region, I'd given up hope of ever finding a taco nearly as perfectly balanced, chewy, and crisped, as I'd known in the days of my youth. I'd resigned myself to both disappointment and lackluster Tex-Mex.
Until tonight.
From the moment the taste of lime, cilantro, and savory, smoky, carne asada flooded my tongue-- I realized, I was a changed woman. In a single bite, every repressed memory, hope, dream, fear-- every pain I'd conditioned myself to embrace-- all of it, gone. In one, single, sumptous, bite. My great, white whale...my Everest. I have found you again. I pledged fealty as one solitary tear slid down my cheek, and now know that the dark days are behind me.
God bless you, Taqueria La Nueva. God bless you.
