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Choose tacos.
Choose corn tortillas, pressed by hand, warm off the comal, not some sad shell that snaps when you look at it.
Choose al pastor, shaved off the trompo dripping in pineapple juice.
Choose Barbacoa.
Choose a squeeze of lime, a bit of onion, a bit of coriander, and a salsa that makes your eyes water and your soul feel alive.
Choose Tuesday.
Taco Tuesday.
The only day of the week that means anything.
Monday's a warm-up.
Wednesday's a comedown.
But Tuesday...
Tuesday's sacred.
I lived in Mexico City, son. I've had tacos at two in the morning off a cart in Tepito, with a fella called El Tomate who never once asked my name.
That's respect.
So people ask me, 'TK, fancy a Taco Bell?'
And I look them dead in the eye.
And I say nothing.
Because some questions don't deserve an answer.
Never Taco Bell.
Not hungover.
Not skint.
Not if it's the last place open on the planet
Choose life?
Nah, mate. I chose tacos.
The name's King. Taco King. Salsa verde, not stirred.
Choose corn tortillas, pressed by hand, warm off the comal, not some sad shell that snaps when you look at it.
Choose al pastor, shaved off the trompo dripping in pineapple juice.
Choose Barbacoa.
Choose a squeeze of lime, a bit of onion, a bit of coriander, and a salsa that makes your eyes water and your soul feel alive.
Choose Tuesday.
Taco Tuesday.
The only day of the week that means anything.
Monday's a warm-up.
Wednesday's a comedown.
But Tuesday...
Tuesday's sacred.
I lived in Mexico City, son. I've had tacos at two in the morning off a cart in Tepito, with a fella called El Tomate who never once asked my name.
That's respect.
So people ask me, 'TK, fancy a Taco Bell?'
And I look them dead in the eye.
And I say nothing.
Because some questions don't deserve an answer.
Never Taco Bell.
Not hungover.
Not skint.
Not if it's the last place open on the planet
Choose life?
Nah, mate. I chose tacos.
The name's King. Taco King. Salsa verde, not stirred.
