Yes, I know I'm acting like some silly Pied Piper, waxing poetic on buck-fifty snack food. I'm out of my element, rhapsodizing about Mexican food as if I discovered it. (I did arch an eyebrow when a plate of tacos I ordered one night arrived with a dollop of sour cream atop each; was somebody trying to tell me something?) And here and there, yes, Primo has its little faults, like one taco asadawhose steak tasted too much of gristly pot roast. I realize it's unseemly to go on about Third World street food as if nothing you can learn in culinary school has any merit. I'm okay with all of that.
Because this food is special.
Muy, muy special.
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