We had our bike out and a brand new Bike-to-Work bag, which we use almost exclusively for transporting burritos. We pointed our wheels toward 23rd Street, Richmond’s undeniable corridor of serious eating, for Tacos El Pueblo, a new taco truck that turned up a few weeks back.
At the Tacos El Pueblo window, we let ourselves get talked into the Super Steak Burrito, which turned out to be a monument to grilled meat, refried beans and survival-level caloric density.
From where we stood, in the empty parking lot — a former used-car dealership — we could hear the burrito artist before we could see anything, the rhythmic chop, the hiss of the flat top, the sound of someone who knew exactly what she was doing and didn’t need an audience. Good. We had our own show.
Across the way at the gas station, voices suddenly got loud. A car shot out of the lot too fast, tires squealing as it swung onto 23rd and barely missed another car coming up the street, three left turns, and it is gone. Everyone kind of paused for a second after that, then went back to pumping gas, whatever they were doing before…