The first time I followed the scent of toasted corn and citrus to a brightly painted truck parked on a quiet corner in Grand Rapids, I realized that Michigan’s best meals don’t always come with a front door.
There is a specific, fleeting magic to standing on a sun-warmed sidewalk, listening to the rhythmic hiss of a griddle while the city hums around you in a blur of activity.
I remember the way the steam from a fresh bowl of noodles would curl into the crisp lake air, smelling of ginger, soy, and the kind of hard-earned char that only a well-seasoned wok can produce…