My dad grew up in Calexico, Calif. It was a place, boasting a genuine board sidewalk, that we'd visit when we could, usually sometime in mid-summer when the temperature approached 100 and the humidity sat at 90 percent. Hot place in the summer, Calexico.
And, I don't think I have to say, it wasn't anyplace even remotely attractive to fans of good food. Oh, the Mexican food was palatable. At least it was genuine. But not much else.
Which was why, a couple of weeks ago when I was in New York, I was surprised to see a food truck bearing the same name as the city of my father's birth. Furthermore, I was even more surprised to see that it served “gourmet Mexican food.”
Even dad, bless his soul, is rolling over in his grave at that.