One summer Sunday afternoon, headed back from Riis Park Beach, a Texan turned to a Californian and asked if she wanted to get tacos. The Californian demurred; the rice in New York is always off, she complained, the horchatas watery. The Texan insisted that no, Tacos El Bronco is the real deal, and anyway, it’s cheap enough that a misfire wouldn’t be too punishing. They sat down and ordered from a plentiful and, as promised, affordable menu. Ten minutes later, tacos: steaming, supple tortillas with well — not over — portioned toppings. The Texan, knowing not to waste any time, dived in to her carnitas, a smile spreading across her stuffed mouth. The Californian lifted a forkful of the all-important rice, its just-right shade of orange already promising. She took a bite. It was so perfect that she wept with joy.
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