Back in the day, about '88, I was living in San Diego on the po' side of town. Downtown, the locals called it. The warehouse district. 
     Living there was dicey. Homeless people roamed on the sidewalk outside of the newly-built place where I rented out a room by the week for about $90, and I was glad to pay such an exorbitant price, because the place was like a fortress. The front door was always locked and the desk clerk would let you in only if he knew you on sight. If not, a lengthy and sometimes lively discussion took place on the intercom.

     A guy got stabbed right outside my second story window one night, and muggings were common if you didn't look crazier or better armed than your would-be assailant. The night belonged to the people on the streets, and 24/7, guys stood on a particular street corner dealing drugs.
    During the day, produce trucks lined the streets around my place, because the city's produce was delivered to the warehouses near my building and divvied up there for distribution to all points. Most of this produce came from the sweltering, below sea level Imperial Valley area, picked just that morning or in the day previous. It was then trucked over Interstate 8's Tecate Divide and then down into sea level San Diego. 
    A lot of the people picking that produce were probably Mexican, and no doubt many of them were here in the country illegally. 
    A few city blocks to the east from where I lived ran the 405 Freeway, which joined Interstate 5 just before that road terminated at the Mexican border not that many miles away. Tijuana lay there, and I visited once, which made me all the happier to be where I was, even if where I was wasn't much. 

     People from Mexico were always trying to cross into the U.S. and sometimes a group of people at the border would make a break for it and just start running. Some died after being hit by cars on the freeway. 
     Vehicles got stolen on a regular basis on the American side and were driven into Mexico- deep into Mexico, waved on through by the 'border agents' on the take on the other side. One night I think it was six or eight Chevy Suburbans disappeared from the parking lot of Jack Murphy stadium during a baseball game. 

     San Diego was an expensive place to live. Real estate speculation was rampant at the time I lived there, and working class Joe's and Jane's were rapidly being priced out. It was hard to live there- even if you were white! So you made do with what little you had, if you were from the neighborhood I lived in, or worked where I worked, and when it came to food at work every guy on the crew knew where the deals were. 
    Near the shop I worked out of was an old, nondescript white gas station, abandoned. Two Mexican guys, I don't know if they were legal or not, started a restaurant inside there, but that restaurant didn't have a sign. Maybe they would put one up later but for now, business was a couple of big pots on a burner in the back, next to that a deep fryer, over on one side a tiny prep area, and a sliding window area in front for ordering at. There were a few plastic seats outside, and two tiny tables, but most people got what they made to go and what these guys made were mainly taquitos. 
     Now I didn't know what taquitos were until my coworkers turned me onto this place but when I did finally have one it was love at first bite. 
    Taquitos are little rolled up tortillas containing meat and cheese fillings (but minus the typical taco ingredients lettuce and tomato). They're deep fried and once they've cooled you dip them into salsa before eating them. Years later I found out that these things go by another name. 'Flautas', they are also called, which is Spanish for 'flutes'. 

   Those two Mexican guys were hard workers. I watched them orchestrate their moves in that little 'kitchen' and never did they get cross with each other or complain. They treated the customers with courtesy but not much more than that. They were businessmen, on the job, and there were always customers waiting. 
     Man, I tell you, I lived for those taquitos. First and best I ever had, 'cuz I've had a lot since then, but if you've ever lived close to the border you know that they do things different down there and that difference is what they bring over from the home country. It can't be duplicated. Those taquitos had soul, man, I swear it. I would daydream about getting off of work and running over to that gas station to get my fix, like any junkie jones'n for a shot of heroin. 
    But one day fate intervened, life happened, and I moved away. When I came back to visit San Diego, only one year later(!), that gas station was still there but it was empty (as was my former business location) so I had nobody to ask to find out what happened to those two guys. Did they expand, move to a different location, or go their separate ways? All sorts of unanswered questions. 
      Maybe, if they were illegal and just might have been careless and not had all their papers in order, they got sent back to Mexico after getting stopped while driving somewhere at some random Border Patrol checkpoint.  If so, the greatest danger those two ever posed to me was that they made food too good. 
      So Buenos Dias, my Mexican amigos, wherever you are. And muchas gracias for turning me onto a food that I savor to this very day.