Things I’ll Miss About Dallas: Gas Station Taquerias

You pull into the parking lot with a little trepidation; this isn’t the greatest part of town.  At least it’s off the beaten path a bit, away from the throngs of people wandering aimlessly through the streets of Dallas looking for cars to steal.  There is only one car there besides yours, and it’s owner is filling it up with the corn-spiked mixture that passes for gasoline these days.  The sign on the building says “Chevron.”  This is not a restaurant, at least not in any traditional sense.  But you know better.

As you walk through the door, you see before you a counter with three Mexicans.  Two of them, a guy and a girl, are sitting there reading Al Dia silently.  The other one has on a chef’s hat, and is eyeing you as you stroll straight back to him.  You pass the Chevron clerk on your right, a fat man who is talking to his buddy.  They don’t look up as you pass.  You suspect them to both be of African descent, based on skin color and language.  This is all a lot of ethnicity for you, a white boy, to take.  Nevertheless, you are confident that this will be worth it.  You notice music playing faintly…it’s the Celine Dion song from the movie Titanic.  “Near, far…wherever you are, etc.”  Ugh.  Not even that can wreck your appetite.

MexiChef says “vaminos,” and the guy and the girl look up, smile at you, and scurry away.  The guy is wearing a wife beater and dirty jeans, and the girl is dressed in shirt that’s a couple sizes too small.  She’s still smiling at you as she walks past your extreme whiteness, towards the door you just came in.  The closer you get to the counter, the more it smells like oil and taco seasoning.  You take this entire paragraph as a series of good signs.

Glancing up at the handwritten sign behind the counter, you notice they’re serving two choices today:  tacos and “zinchronisaidas.”  Normally, you would take the safe route, but you’ve been tipped off.  MexiChef is silently waiting, pad and pen in hand.  Tacos are $1.25, and the food that starts with Z is $3.75.  It’s not every place that serves heaven on earth for under 4 bucks.  You are a lucky gringo today.  Your voice strains to overcome the Celine Dion and and African conversation, but you manage to get out, “I’d like a zinchroni…” before you stop, unsure of how to proceed with the rest of the word.  You’ve eaten a lot of Mexican food, but never one of these.  MexiChef is already writing it down though, and proceeds to finish the word for you out of mercy.  He then asks, “Wat kieend?”  Your brain takes a second to translate the question, and you remove your eyes from his and look back at the friendly board.  He takes over, pointing out your choices.  They are the standard — “pollo,” “barbacoa,” “beef,” and “pastor.”  The proverbial ball is in your court.

Anyone who’s spent any time in Texas knows what “pollo” is — chicken.  “Beef” is also self-explanatory, and apparently universal.  “Barbacoa” is a word that’s both intuitive and fairly common around these parts.  It simply means “barbeque.”  That leaves pastor, which the discriminating consumer of gas-station tacos knows is not a religious or nature-related term, but rather a special pulled pork.  Again, having been tipped off ahead of time, you know which meat to choose.

“Pastor,” you say confidently, pronouncing it “pa-STORE” as best you can.

MexiChef turns and immediately start getting ingredients out.  You will pay when he’s done, you guess.  You sit down on the stool the Mexican girl was sitting on and start looking at your phone.  A couple other white people have come in while you were ordering, and they’re getting sodas and coffee.  Everyone except you looks resoundingly blue-collar.  Your golf shirt and clean jeans would be making you feel slightly out of place, but nobody seems to notice you’re there.  Celine Dion is still oversinging.  What, oh what, would you do if you couldn’t look at your phone?

MexiChef gets you attention about 3 minutes later; apparently your zinchroni-thingy is done.  The bad thing about $3.75 is that tax brings the total over 4 dollars.  You’ll be exiting this Chevron station with a pocketful of change.  You can smell the food through the white styrofoam container, and you’re liking what you smell.  You hand over a fin and get your change.  MexiChef thanks you, and you thank him back.

Time passes quickly now as you walk back to your car and prepare to put heaven in your belly.  You barely notice the blue collar workers paying for their drinks, the African clerk, or the Mexicans coming back in to take their seats at the counter.  You sure as heck don’t know if Celine Dion is still playing.  Your car is like 150 degrees, because it was sitting in the sun for five whole minutes.  Thankfully, your A/C is robust enough to make quick work of even extreme Texas heat.

You decide to drive to a better part of town to eat your prize.  It’s a curious decision, because the anticipation is killing you a little bit every second you and the zinchronisaida are apart.  After a couple minutes, you’re in the clear.  You find a parking spot far away from all the other Dallas-ites, under some nice shade to help the idling A/C (which is not nearly so robust as the in-motion A/C).  You open the styrofoam container and see the Mexican concoction, which resembles a large quesadilla.  Why don’t they just call it that?  Must be something about how it’s made.  The tortillas are definitely a little fried on the grill.  Maybe that’s it.

It comes with a plastic fork, some napkins, and some green salsa.  The salsa’s never as hot as you think it’s going to be.  Nevertheless, you want to try this zinchro thing naked.  No, not you, the food.  Put your clothes back on.  What kind of story do you think this is?

You take the knife and fork and cut yourself a piece.  The tortilla is a little tough, but you manage to get it cut with not too much squooshing.  Stabbing the piece with your fork, you send it home, an involuntary smile passing your lips.  If this is a quesadilla, it’s the greatest quesadilla in the world.  The gobs of cheese and the pork have melted together in a pile of absolute gooey awesome.  Time stops, and your entire food paradigm shifts to accommodate this, it’s new leader.  Your entire life is divided into B.Z. and A.Z. now.  The best part?  You still have like 50 bites to go.

The only thing that could put a dent in your enjoyment is thinking about the amount of fat molecules it took to make something like that.  But you’re in Dallas, and therefore don’t tolerate that kind of sissy thinking.  If health exists, it surely doesn’t apply here.  The rules have changed.  You cannot un-taste zinchronisaida.