Ravaging With The Gods

There's a famous quote by Hubert Selby Jr. about what it takes to be an artist. He says it takes "everything you got," in not so many words, it's a life/death symbiosis that allows you to "transcend all this meaningless gibberish and hang out with the gods."

We here at Wasted On Steak like to consider ourselves eating artists. And here to attest to the skilled craft we've come to perfect is a first hand account of what it's like to ravage with the gods. Enjoy.

Ravaging With The Gods

Brandon Russell

I’m in the back seat of little miss White Lightning, racing down the 605 toward Taco San Pedro, with Kyle riding shotgun. It’s a beautiful car, immaculate and well kept for its 300,000-mile age. It’s familiar and comforting, and Sako won't let you forget that.

Sako sinks in behind the wheel naturally and rarely moves. They speak in hushed voices up in front, or so it seems with the wind whipping through the tilted sunroof. Every now and then they’ll bust out in laughter, belly laughter too; throw back the head, stomp the feet laughter.

This is the way it is much of the time with the two of them, a lot of back and forth, the way Will Smith and Martin Lawrence bicker in Bad Boys, though I’m not sure who would be who.

I just sit back and enjoy all of it.

The Band pulsates through the car’s honeycomb speakers, lights glide over the highway from passing traffic. Kyle belts out a few lyrics, tapping his fingers against the passenger door, belches, scratches his face, and continues on with the music. Sako debates out loud to no one in particular what we should order as a group.

“I’m thinking fully. And a Burrito. And a Ques…” he says.

I’m not sure if I should answer, so I remain silent, and after a while that’s all there is: a silence, a calm. The two of them, with all the belching and growling and laughter, look ready to eat.

“Almost there,” Sako says as a reflective Hawaiian Gardens city limit sign passes.

“Oh Babu¹,” Kyle replies in earnest. “Can’t wait.” His voice raises a few pitches.

Taco San Pedro is a small, cash-only place just off the 605 on Carson St, an earshot from the Hawaiian Gardens Casino. If not for frantic Southern California traffic you could almost hear the clanging slot machines releasing and devouring up people’s money. The parking lot is like most hole in the wall places, with little to no room and an ever-deteriorating pavement being overtaken by weeds.

It’s 9:45 when we step out of the car, and immediately we’re welcomed by the incredible smell of TSP: Carne asada, tortillas, guac, salsa, all of it seducing our taste buds and inviting us inside. This just about drives the two of them wild, sending both into seizure-like fits of giddiness. Witnessing their excitement I come to realize that over the years eating with these two gentlemen isn’t just about enjoying the food, or chugging smooth, cold beers, or talking shit even; there’s a spectacle involved, an almost subconscious ritual complete with dancing and animalistic calls and chants, like a primate offering himself up to a female in heat.

“Ohhs” and “Fuuuhs” are heaved out with great conviction, and we aren’t even through the front door!

The loudspeakers clamor with Hispanic music, metal spatulas tap dance over the open countertop stoves. My stomach churns and growls. An assortment of customers are seated in booths along the walls, their meals set before them.

“No line?” Kyle says.

The inside has been redone since I last came, with a clean, waxy looking hardwood lining the bottom half of the walls along with a medley of bright, cultural paintings. It’s homey, cozy. I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I just stare up at the menu on the wall.

Sako throws his shoulders back and strides to the register where he proceeds to order what seems like the entire menu – and all in Spanish: Carne Asada burrito, Asada quesadilla, Asada flautas (extra crema), and a dish that resembles a sort of hamburger; all for twenty-four dollars. Not bad when split three ways, especially for such quality and quantity.

“Nooiiiice,” Kyle says, “cheeks.”

As we wait for our order, the conversation never strays too far away from food. “I can’t waaaaiiiiiit to eat this burrit,” Kyle says, opening up his camera bag. He examines the body and adjusts a few settings. “And that ques with some salsy rojo,” Sako says. I nod, unsure if I should chime in. Kyle takes a picture of our receipt, for the good of the blog, and Sako lays into him on his use of flash. They bicker, I jump in, we talk about food some more, laugh, grunt. Our number is called, and almost in unison our heads whip toward the register.

“Ohhhhh yes,” Kyle says like he’s won some special award.

I know how he feels.

Sako’s mouth almost drips with saliva.

It’s a mauling. As soon as the trays of food hit the table, Sako swoops up the burrito and proceeds to stuff his face, hard, with big, snarling bites. Kyle does the same, only with the flautas, carefully picking them up so the lettuce and crema stay on top. Every so often he stops and snaps a photo of the action. If a mom had been there she would have told them to slow down, chew their food, breathe. But this is Wasted On Steak we’re talking about, grizzly, hungry, smelly men, forget breathing.

I join in, first with the burrito that is being passed around like a stogie, then with the flautas and quesadilla.

“Oh my God,” Kyle says, his mouth full. “Just, oh. Incredible.” Cilantro and lettuce and crema hang onto his beard.

“Amazing,” Sako says.

I smile.

Kyle takes a drink of Pepsi. “That burrito’s got some kick to it,” he says. “I love it.”

Food is passed around, arms are tangled up, forks and knives are lost and shared, napkins are used, a frenzy of chewing and gulping. In the end, there’s practically nothing left. The table is smeared with guac and salsa and bits of tortilla (mostly on Sako’s side), but the plates are absent of any food. I sit back and admire our work, what the crew is capable of, like Spartans taking out an entire army. Kyle belches and snaps another photo. Sako sighs heavily, dejected that it is over.

There’s a satisfying tranquility, one of those special moments reserved for only the best meals, where the silence speaks volumes.

“Round two?” Kyle says.

A belch flies across the table and I take that as a yes from Sako.

Forget silence. That just wouldn’t be their style.

¹ Babu is a term of endearment often used to express feelings of intense pleasure.