I turned the corner at Refugio, with those buds on my tongue wishing that Tio Carlos’ taco stand might have changed its hours. But no, it was all boarded up just like all of the other afternoons.

I wasn’t surprised. And I already had Bahn Mi and a mystery meat sandwich in my radar when I glanced across the street. There, through one of those nasty looking chain link fences that should only surround penitentiaries, I caught sight of what looked like a taco cart I’d never seen before. And was that something or someone moving inside?

Now curiosity may have killed the cat but it’s willed me to some fine feasts. Might this be one?

I crossed Stirling Dickinson. As I moved from cobblestones to pavement to dirt, I began to be able to make out the font that my friend Richard had taught me was Texas Tango.

Terco…Claro! Porque cuando de tacos se trata no tienes por que cambiar de opinion.

I wasn’t exactly sure what it said. Though I think Don Day’s somewhat more bilingual wife may have used the word “terco” once or thrice in referring to Don Day but I was too stubborn to look it up.

I went up to the window. What to say (keeping in mind that my brain was telling me you’re supposed to be going to eat Vietnamese)?

I didn’t have to say anything. The guy in the window went first.

Charm. How do you define it? How do you recognize it? How do you cultivate it? This guy certainly had it.

His name was Edgar.

You can call me Eddie he said. If my parents had Christened me Edgar, I probably would have begged to have been called Eddie or Eddy or just plain Ed. 

Still with the Vietnamese sandwich on my best intentions menu, I decided I could squeeze in one taco before wandering up to Bahn Mi.

“I’d like one of the tacos that you’re most proud of”, I said, in a challenging voice.”

“Then you must have El Clásico, the bistec”, said a beaming Edgar (or Eddie). “I’m from Nayarit. That’s what we eat in Nayarit.”

“Would you like cheese? We don’t use supermarket slices. We only use Panela”, he continued, referring to the fresh cow’s milk cheese and bringing out the round to entice me.

“Of course I want the Panela”, I said, thinking, like Mozzarella, how scrumptious it gets when it’s touched by some heat.

A wide but skinny slice of beef that looked like it might have come from my favorite animal’s chest went on the grill and, as he chopped it, Edgar asked, “Cilantro? Onions?”

“Would you have cilantro and onions?”, I replied.

“I would”, he said and I did.

“And what sauce?” I asked, as I reached for my inviting taco and eyed the long parade of aluminum bowls that lined the counter.

“A little gwock (my spelling) and a little habañero”, said Edgar. “It’s not too spicy”, reciting those four little words that can never quite be trusted from the mouths of Mexicans.

It was too spicy for most. But not me. And it was juicy, meaty, delicious.

Halfway through it I knew that Southeast Asia was off my culinary road map for the day.

I asked Edgar what would be the number two taco on his hit parade and, as I licked my lips, he asked, “Do you eat lengua?” and lifted about a 14-incher out of the pot.

“I grew up eating tongue”, I said. “There was tongue in my brown paper lunch bag at least once a week. I loved it. But I didn’t know how to explain it to my peanut butter and jam munching buddies.

“‘Tell them we’re immigrants. Tell them we’re poor’, my mother would say, while she knew I simply preferred it to roast beef and ham that she would have gladly made me a sandwich of.”

I went on and on and probably bored him with a too long family history of eating tongue and biting my tongue but, nevertheless, Edgar’s ears stayed perked and he looked amused.

“Room for one more”, I said.

“Then you must have the adobada, it’s my take on al pastor”, Edgar said authoritatively.

“Then I must”, said I.

It was good. As good as the first. As good as the second.

Now call it rules and regs, call it tradition, but, like wise owls and wolves’ howls, taco trucks usually only come out at night.

Were Edgar’s tacos much better than those after dark tacos at places like Andy’s or Carlos’ or Beto’s? 

I’m not sure. But at around 2:45, on that Wednesday afternoon, they were the best tacos in San Miguel.

Tacos El Terco is on the south side of Stirling Dickinson near the end of the street. It’s where the half-finished homes sat for 20 years then were knocked down last year. The taco truck is open from 10:00 am to 6:00 pm. If you’re lost, call Eddie at 415 216 5559.