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Taco Territory

Ramon Perez will take your order now.

Ramon Perez will take your order now.

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Wendell, Idaho, calls itself the “Hub City of the Magic Valley,” and if you’re on a taco truck safari, that’s about right. You literally can’t get in or out of this town, barring some deliberately complex detour, without passing several quality mobile taco facilities.

Think of them of as culinary and social laboratories, these humble little trucks serving their simple, fresh and authentic Mexican food. They are run, without exception, by Hispanic immigrants, whose numbers are booming in southern Idaho. In the irrigated farm towns of the central Snake River Plain, Spanish-speaking populations have more than doubled in a single generation. It’s a demographic sea change in a once homogenous stretch of country, and with new communities comes new food. Today, the taco truck is as common a landscape feature as was yesterday’s burger shack.

In a restaurant, we don't usually interact with our fellow customers. At a taco truck, it's basically mandatory.

The men and women who spend their days inside these mobile kitchens have their reasons. Each is an entrepreneur. Some are passionate about cooking. Others have simply never done anything else. Their lives are not easy, their days not short. They work semi-exposed to the elements, bundled against the prairie’s winter gusts and sweltering in propane-fired metal cages in summer. But they see opportunity, and they want what we all want: financial security, purpose in life and a really kick-ass hot sauce.

In their ubiquity and their pride, Idaho’s taco trucks are a sign of a changing America. They can be the targets of derision and scorn. But peek inside at a cutting board piled with green and white mounds of fresh-chopped cilantro and onion. Pop a tall bottle of Mexican Coke (made with real sugar!), and listen to a hot griddle sizzle with asada as the scorned lovers of a Mexican soap opera coo in each other’s arms on a small television perched atop a sunny dashboard. Take a seat in the shade and try to resist the taco truck’s charms. I dare you.

The sun shines bright and the wind blows hard in taco country; A quick, fresh, $4 snack in Gooding; El Toro makes even the most discerning customers happy; The bell rings and lunch is ready in Jerome.











A kingdom for a truck

The Magic Valley’s prime taco truck territory stretches roughly fifty miles across, from Gooding in the northwest to Twin Falls in the south.

What’s in this place?

A major interstate traces the east-west path of the Snake River. In Gooding, the world’s largest barrel cheese factory can process 9 million pounds of milk into 500 pounds of bland cheese in a single day. There is sagebrush, alfalfa, redbrick schools and way more cows than people (cheese doesn’t grow on trees). Drive by one of the area’s massive dairy farms and pass through one of the dense and noxious clouds of methane that hover there, and that ratio looks unlikely to reverse anytime soon. But this is also a peaceful place under a wide open sky, close to the land and with an economy that has proven fairly resistant to the recession’s most severe fallout.

Tony and Belinda Perez didn’t really have time to take this picture during the lunch hour rush in Jerome; Ramon Perez’s truck basks in the sun of a typical crisp day in Gooding, the territory’s most remote frontier outpost.

To Tony Perez, this is a kingdom. Perez owns El Toro Mexican Taqueria and his five trucks, each stamped with the eponymous stamping bull, encircle this land. His trucks are newer, bigger and painted bolder. And they do more business than his competitors. El Toro’s trucks are white (except for one all-silver edition in downtown Jerome), and they are detailed in Mexico’s red and green, right down to the painted menus.

Perez moved to Tacoma, Washington, from his native Guadalajara in 1986. He moved to Idaho eight years later to work at Garibaldi’s, his brother José’s Twin Falls restaurant. When Tony broke away to start El Toro, he did it with a single truck. Today, he is the Microsoft of the Magic Valley taco market. He buys a used truck every other year or so, and his El Toros are seemingly everywhere, a stamping black bull for every major town in four counties.

Perez’s brother, Ramon, runs El Toro #3 in Gooding, the territory’s northernmost outpost. Even as part of his brother’s dominion, Ramon enjoys a sense of autonomy. “I am my own boss here,” he said. “Except for my wife when she comes.”

Things in Gooding are quieter than at the other El Toro locations. Ramon shows considerable pride in his food, and his marinated meats showcase deeper flavors than at his brother’s or nephew’s trucks to the south. When a Hispanic family in a minivan pulled up and placed an order, Ramon burst into action. He buzzed around his kitchen, causing the truck to rock gently on its suspension. In the van’s front seat, a teenage girl was texting intently, blithely ignoring her little brother’s back seat provocations. Ten minutes later, dinner from Ramon was wrapped in plates and tin foil, and the family was on its way home.

In Jerome, Tony Perez tried a few locations—including the gravel parking lot of an abandoned pawn and gun shop—before he secured a spot on a busy four-lane stretch of Lincoln Avenue, across from the massive Wal-Mart Supercenter. It’s El Toro’s most prosperous location yet­­­—on a good day here, Perez can sell twenty-five pounds of carne asada. His clientele is mostly Hispanic, but also “a lot of gabacho,” he said with a wry smile. During a sunny lunch hour last summer, business was brisk. The phone rang with orders. One young couple waited at the window, and while their toddler son hid between his parents’ legs, Perez and his wife Benita worked the kitchen. They griddle-fried small corn tortillas and swatted at the flies circling their platters of raw beef.

This is a truck for the rushed work week eater. The traffic on Lincoln Avenue is loud and unrelenting, and the tacos trend greasy, which can be a good or bad thing, depending on your mood’s appetite. Despite his success here, Perez doesn’t want to run trucks forever. His brother’s restaurants have four locations now, and he sees more of a future in brick and mortar than wheels and axles. As for the trucks themselves, Perez isn’t sentimental. “I’d sell them and open my own restaurant,” he said without hesitation.


The food truck future

Business on Lincoln Avenue is good, but no matter how busy the Wal-Mart gets, no matter how many trucks he sends into southern Idaho’s prairies and plains, Tony Perez isn’t going to get rich selling tacos here. Even pushing a truck into the moneyed Wood River Valley, as he’s been talking about for years, won’t drastically alter his balance sheet.

But in Los Angeles, where the rise of the gourmet food truck has been one of the biggest urban trends of the past decade, the millionaire taco truck owner is no fantasy.

The proof is Roy Choi, the law school dropout who started Kogi, a small fleet of Korean Barbecue taco trucks. In his first year selling $2 short rib tacos and $5 kimchi quesadillas, Choi took in $2 million. According to TIME Magazine’s Joel Stein, the average Kogi customer spends just $13 per visit. But Kogi’s four trucks serve 3,000 people a day, and all those tacos add up.

The men and women who spend their days inside these mobile kitchens have their reasons. They see opportunity, and they want what we all want: financial security, purpose in life and a really kick-ass hot sauce.

While Choi sails, the generation of diverse, up-market food wagons that he helped spawn has learned to be more than just taco-savvy. Whether they sell ice cream or escargot, these vendors have redefined traditional marketing methods. Social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter are central to their promotional strategies—fans and followers armed with iPhones find out what their favorite truck is serving, where it’s parked (legally or otherwise) and maybe even who else they might find there.

There is an essential social aspect to all this. From the blustery edge of a small Idaho farm town to the center of the Los Angeles megalopolis, waiting in line, eating outside at park benches—these are communal experiences. In a restaurant, we don’t usually interact with our fellow customers. At a taco truck, it’s basically mandatory.



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