The Oldest Profession On Taco Tuesday
Exploring San Francisco's Mission District
It’s 10:30 in the morning with a chilly bite hanging in the air as I head out from pet sitting in Bernal Heights, San Francisco. Navigating the hills down to the Mission District, I’m on the hunt for street tacos. After all, it’s a foggy Tuesday morning, and I am desperate for real Mexican food in a taquería, preferably with order-at-the-counter service, menu board, warm chips and salsa, and a self-serve condiment bar (I go straight for the habanero salsa, pickled jalapeños, and carrots). If only they offered Rolaids and a box of tissues to accompany the sinus-clearing salsa, it would be perfecto. Maybe throw in a priest for last rites in case I explode mid-bite.
Strolling along busy Mission Street, I squeezed shoulder to shoulder through locals selling “sh*t on the sidewalk.” You know: three bottles of shampoo, old grapes and bananas, cat food, AA batteries, and worn-out “vintage” handbags. Now I know why major stores lock up toiletries, cosmetics, and toothpaste. Because they get stolen and wind up at the sidewalk mercado on 24th and Mission. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of those products had been concealed down someone’s pantalones. Yuck! And somewhere, I swear, there’s a thief with perfect dental hygiene thanks to hot sidewalk Crest.
Sidewalk Mercado Madness
It’s the part of the Mission District I was warned about: “I don’t know if you should go there, Sandi. It’s a bit rough,” a helpful friend shared. Yet it was beaming with ma-and-pa shops, street vendors machete-ing open coconuts for fresh agua de coco, Muni buses humming along, graffiti, and a glorious ethnic mix. It’s where sidewalk cracks never get repaired. The kind of place where you could buy the freshest, affordable produce (hello, San Francisco), a stolen iPhone, and get your shoes repaired all within three feet.
I strolled into a taquería, ready for $2.75 Taco Tuesday, a frothy horchata, and a yellow-vinyled booth large enough that I could stretch out and fully commit to my impending food coma. Chatting with Miguel behind the counter, I ordered three street tacos: carnitas, pollo, and my all-time favorite, lengua. For those of you cringing right now about lengua — no la critiques hasta que la pruebes. It’s beefy, tender, and tastes nothing like French kissing a cow, despite what you’ve heard.
With ten booths running along the wall, I secured one near the front door and prepared to dive into mi gran fiesta mexicana. Small cups of fire-breathing salsa: check. Extra napkins for spills and emptying my sinuses: check. Elbow room and peace and quiet so I could savor every spicy bite: check.
Then, THEN, an elderly man — slightly drunk, ok… really drunk, wearing a shirt stained with what looked like last night’s regurgitated dinner, dusty jeans, and a scruffy beard — shuffled up to my booth, gripping a 55-gallon bottle of Modelo beer. (Remember, it’s 11:00 in the morning.) He swayed on unsteady feet like he was doing a slow hula, looked at me through glazed and bloodshot eyes, slapped a $20 bill on my table, mumbled something in Spanish, and stood there… waiting. He was so blitzed that I could have blown him over with one puff of my jalapeño breath.
Being clueless, I motioned for him to leave. Instead, he slurred, “I’ve had a bad morning.” Oh, ya think granddad?! Living in Portugal, it had been muchos días since I’d had a taco… or three. So let me tell you, NO one was going to interrupt my orgasmic, chili-laden food binge. If a nuclear disaster struck during this meal, I’d still get a takeaway box, extra pickled jalapeños, and a horchata to go.
I was NOT in the mood to converse with some drunk abuelito with missing teeth. Annoyed, I leaned back in my bench seat and looked across the counter at Miguel.
A Salsa-Slinging Bouncer
“Señor! Miguel!! Señor!” I shouted, waving and pointing to the intruder disrupting my tortilla fest. “What the hell?!” Practically leaping over the counter, Miguel marched up to my booth, grabbed Mr. 11:00 a.m. Drunkard by the scruff of the neck, whisked up the $20 bucks, and ushered them both out the front door. Wow. Miguel to the rescue! I wondered if he had a side hustle as a bouncer at the local Mexican discoteca. He was impressive. With a cock of his neck, shrug of his shoulders, and a hearty sniff, he offered an apology and returned behind the counter to take the next order from a wide-eyed customer. Silence fell over the taquería as everyone went back to their food — heads down, as if speaking might get you evicted mid-burrito.
Lingering over my lengua, I sipped horchata, downed more habanero salsa, and had a private moment with my carnitas. It was sooo satisfying. I briefly considered proposing to it. Finishing, I didn’t walk, but floated in pure euphoria back to the trash can with my paper-lined basket — you know, the kind fish and chips are served in — plus a small pile of empty plastic salsa cups, and a smile like I’d just taken a slow, heavy inhale of a doobie. (Confession: I’ve never smoked a joint, but if I had, we can all imagine the look on my face.)
Curiosity got the better of me, so I approached the now-empty counter and asked Miguel (the Mexican version of Guido the order-taking security guard), “What was the deal with the old guy and the twenty bucks?”
“Oh… he was propositioning you for sex,” he said casually.
“What?!” I shouted. “I don’t know if I’m more offended at the thought of him thinking I was available, available for $20 dinero, or available when there’s tacos to be consumed. The only vibe I’ve been giving off is caloric-based.” Disgusting.
I would have never guessed that 11 in the morning was prime time to pick up a prostituta in between city buses, mothers with strollers, and tourists buying San Francisco refrigerator magnets, knock-off Louis Vuitton bags, and tea towels.
“I know… he was hammered,” Miguel responded with the compassion of a licensed therapist.
“And he needed a bath, dentures, and manners,” I snorted. Taking a breath and collecting my composure, I added, “But the tacos were delicious, and I’ll definitely be back next Tuesday because your salsa bar rocks.”
Sliding my cross-body day pack over my shoulder and my newly protruding belly, I stepped out into the first sun of the day, peeking through the waning fog. I swear there were heat waves swirling out of my pores as I smoldered my way through the busy street like a human habanero.
I ventured up to Buffalo Exchange Thrift Store, where I scored some vintage finds, including a merino wool sweater and a cuter-than-a-kitten camo windbreaker. After a significant feast, a healthy walk is always a good idea. Plus, it’s San Francisco, you have to pick up a little something that is weird.
The Mission District is a fabulous neighborhood worthy of exploring. It’s raw, authentic, and eclectic. On two occasions, I chatted with a walking foodie tour; now there’s an idea for your next getaway. Book foodie walking tours globally through GET YOUR GUIDE.
But should someone proposition me again at a taco shop, please remind me to pocket the $20 and treat myself to an overpriced cup of San Francisco coffee… with a churro chaser.