Interview with Joe Bloggs
“Tacos de Abuela”
Mateo Delgado stood behind the counter of his tiny food truck, Tacos de Abuela, tucked into a quiet corner of a bustling London street market. The smell of sizzling meat and warm corn tortillas drew a steady stream of curious customers, most lured in by the hand-painted sign that read:
“Real Mexican Flavour – Just Like Abuela Made.”
And it was true.
Mateo hadn’t grown up in Mexico, but every summer until his teenage years, he’d been shipped off to Guadalajara to stay with his grandmother, Isela. A sprightly woman with a steel cane and a sharper tongue, she ruled her kitchen with holy authority. There were no measurements—only instincts. No recipes—only stories.
“Feel the masa,” she’d say, pressing his small hands into the dough. “If it’s too soft, it cries. If it’s too hard, it bites.”
Mateo learned it all. The al pastor marinade with pineapple juice and achiote. The slow-cooked carnitas, spiced and simmered until it melted. The quick-pickled onions, the crema infused with lime zest, and of course, the salsa that could make grown men weep—and beg for more.
Back in London, long after Isela passed, Mateo found himself tired of spreadsheets and Monday meetings. One night, hungry and nostalgic, he whipped up a batch of his grandmother’s tacos for a few mates. They devoured them like wolves and begged for more. That night, he quit his job.
Now, every day he opened the truck and honoured his grandmother with every taco he made. He only offered four types—because that’s all Abuela said you ever needed. Each taco was crafted like a memory: simple, soulful, and full of fire.
One rainy afternoon, a woman in her sixties approached the truck, ordered a taco de barbacoa, and after her first bite, she paused, eyes glistening.
“This tastes like my mother’s,” she whispered, thick accent betraying her roots.
Mateo just smiled and handed her a napkin. “It’s really my grandmother’s,” he said. “But she taught me well.”
She nodded. “She’d be proud.”
And as the rain pattered on the truck’s metal roof, Mateo flipped a tortilla and whispered, “Gracias, Abuela.”