No. Those places all serve hot garbage in a handmade tortilla. If I'm lucky. With every new bad suggestion from a friend, food blog, or a random Twitter follower who insists I simply haven't met the right taco yet, my craving grows more insatiable. I've tried almost every "good" taco place I can find in New York City, and none of them come close to what I could find in the Windy City.
I spent my last few years in the Midwest, the end of my 20s, hating life there the way a fed-up sitcom spouse hates her dumb, loud, laugh-track-whore of a husband. I felt like I'd outgrown the place. I felt stunted. But since moving to New York City in early 2012, my esteem for the Midwestern metropolis that ushered me into my confused post-collegiate adulthood has softened. Crammed onto a B train that smells like broiled urine; muscles aching as I climb the maze-like stairs to my dark shared apartment on an industrial Brooklyn back road; waiting half an hour for sunny-side-up eggs that cost $14 with people who can't afford any of this; these are the moments when my mind wanders back to the city I consider my home.