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SOUTH PADRE ISLAND — A lone teenager plays miniature golf.
Smoke rolls away from kitchen in a trailer, the seabirds coast across a slow sky, and a multitude of generations — children, teenagers, parents and a couple of grandmothers — move toward the cluster of food trucks.
But they do not stay long at the Island Food Truck Park at 1201 Padre Blvd. They leave as quickly as they came and someone says “Where are we going to go eat?” as they walk up the street past the teenager playing miniature golf.
I only see two middle aged women sitting at a single picnic table, a green picnic table with a yellow top beneath an orange umbrella. They sit and say very little and then leave. One wears a shirt that says Aruba and the other has a unique hairstyle and I wonder where they are from.
There is very little movement right now.
I wonder what I will have today. There is much from which to choose, although it is all Hispanic food except for the one selling ice cream and funnel cakes and blue bell fudge bars and all manner of things to spoil the appetite before the meal or top it off after the meal.
Dona Carmen’s Food Truck offers a list of South Padre Island Favorites: quesatacos, street tacos, tortas, fried shrimp. I have never heard of these being South Padre favorites and they do not sound like South Padre favorites but I know they are good because I have eaten them many times in other places.
I now observe that I am not so observant as I thought, because the food trucks are not all selling Hispanic food. Smokin’ Daddy’s Barbecue suddenly seems to stand and say, “Hey! I’m here! Right over here!”
And I am glad I see this truck now because it has a fine menu: brisket quesadillas, Smokin’ Daddy’s rib smasher, smoke sausage Mexican hot dogs, have smoked chicken etc. The tantalizing photos of the dishes are hard to resist.
But, I look around some more. I like the colors of the trucks and the colors of the menus and the different pictures of the menu items. The bold visuals make this seem like a fun place and I know it is a fun place. The previous night was a Thursday night, and it was dark and people filled the tables and the bright lights and the music made me want to join in the fun. But I was Lyfting and so I could not join the fun, but this early evening I can join the fun but there is no fun … yet.
A few more people are trickling in. A little red-haired girl with her face covered in freckles fidgets at a table with her mother and then the father with a bag full of food boxes beckons them toward another table. A group of out-of-towners comes in.
A food truck called El Pulgarcito Pupusas y Mas beckons my attention with its curious name and the red and the blue colors.
The menu items definitely have an Island feel to them and suggestions of tropical Latin flavors and nuances and aromas.
The ceviche looks good. I have a long history with ceviche and I like ceviche very much. But ceviche has made guest appearances to me quite regularly as of late and I have enjoyed its company but I think I have had enough ceviche for awhile.
“Abby, they’ve got corn dogs, hot dogs …” A woman with deep colorful tattoos on her arms has two small children with her and they are of course full of personality and questions and they are not from here so their eyes are wide and inquisitive and wondering.
More people are coming in, and the excitement grows.
Now I see on the El Pulgarcito truck the po’boys. When I see the word po’boys or hear it, I think of New Orleans. It is a fine city which I have visited three times and have always enjoyed jambalaya, crawfish and po’boys. I have eaten Jambalaya and crawfish in many places, but somehow po’boys seems very New Orleans and I do not think any other po’boy could meet the standard as that in the Crecent City of Louisiana. But now on the side of the truck I see a photo of fried fish tacos, and in the Island breeze and the palm trees and the sky it seems very fitting and very real. Fried fish tacos carry a memory for me. It is a happy memory and a tragic one.
I remember having fried fish tacos more than 20 years ago in the community of San Carlos in the Mexican State of Sonora on the Sea of Cortez. I had taken quick leave from a time and place of sorrows, riding by train through the mountains of the Mexican State of Chihuahua and down to the coast.
The community did seem very interesting and it was the off season. But I did find a charter boat operated by an American which took me and several others out to go snorkeling in the waters of the Sea of Cortez.
The waters were not interesting, but in those moments I was unable to find interest or enjoyment in much of anything. I was glad to be on the water, though, and back on the boat we were served fried fish tacos and the crew played Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville.” I then in fact did go to Margaritaville and paid a hefty fee.
I think today I will have some more fried fish tacos.
Now I take a look at “pupusa.” At first glance I had thought it referred to octopus. Upon further inspection I discovered that I had confused the word “pulpo” which means octopus, with this new word “pupusa.”
What’s that?
I resort to Google on my iPhone. I am increasingly reluctant to use search engines as they are riddled with inaccuracies and fictional tales cleverly served on plates of fact. But in this case, in a bind, I go ahead and look up “Pupusa.”
Google says it is a “traditional, savory stuffed flatbread from El Salvador, made from corn or rice flour dough, filled with ingredients like cheese, beans, or pork, and cooked on a griddle.”
Hmmm. OK. This sounds intriguing. I order the pupusa Hawaiian for the reason I like Hawaiian pizza and torta Hawaiiana: the sweet freshness of the pineapple combined with the meaty flavors is a delicious combination.
I wait now at my table and I wait quite awhile because food from trucks are made slowly with real ingredients from scratch. My wait is also long because more people have shown up and I know this will be an active night.
At Dona Carmen’s, a cook or a server calls out “37” but it sounds like “7” and a woman and a teenage boy from somewhere far away approach the truck and walk away, and then a little girl who is very much a local girl brings her ticket to the truck and leaves with her food.
Gulls angle across the evening blue of the sky catch the sun like a quick moment of shadow.
I am getting hungry.
The cook who took my order calls to me and I approach the window and take my fish tacos and then a couple of minutes later he brings my pupusa Hawaiian.
The fish tacos have generous amounts of food with a good sauce and I enjoy them immensely. They are crunchy and well-prepared and the taste and the texture is very much what I remember.
I do not eat all of the tacos right away. This pupusa has me intrigued. I explore it with my fork and struggle to open it a little because the bread is thick and it is full of what appears to me to be cheese and pieces of ham and the yellow bits of pineapple.
I take small bites. It is good but not very Hawaiian tasting because there is only a very little pineapple. I enjoy it all very much, the tacos and the pupusa, and I take half of the meal home with me.