Despite atrocious directions from Mapquest and my car's worthless GPS navigation system, which sent me stalking the streets by the stockyards -- nowhere near my destination -- I wanted my last dinner before heading off to the Fancy Food Show in San Francisco to be anything but fancy, so I made a taco trek to a tent, where I was supposed to meet a friend who had told me about the joint in the first place. An hour and a half -- and half a gas tank later -- I finally pulled into the crowded parking lot, which housed a carniceria-cum-taqueria and a makeshift, smoke-filled canvassed tent, commanded by an affable taco chief carefully tending to a pineapple-crowned spit, off which slipped marinated nubs of pork, which were slid into griddled corn tortillas and topped with onions, cilantro and radishes and sided with salsa and wedges of lemon. Were they worth the ridiculous time it took to hunt them down? Most definitely.
Can you guess where I'm eating?
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