Oh, magical lunch truck. You miracle on wheels. Such wonders you hold inside thee. A full kitchen with 18 people working in the back who each speak different languages, a driver / cashier, who speaks no discernable human language at all, just some kind sing-song tongue of riddles and rhymes, and what sounds like a 12-piece mariachi band. The laws of space and physics are strewn aside by the lunch truck. It has no time for the rules of mortal men. It must mass produce dish after dish of inexplicable mystery food that looks vaguely Spanish and taste like cherub punched you in your mouth hole. The lunch truck needs no gas. It runs on used piñata parts and dried torero roses. Sometimes I’ll ask the driver where they will take their remarkable caravan of tortilla delights next. He points to the distant horizon and says, “To the further.” I think that’s where heaven is.