Man . . .

. . . today has been a day wherein everything I ate was purchased on the street. Keep in mind, Chicago has a strict ordinance prohibiting the sale of prepared foods on the streets and sidewalks. But that didn't stop me from buying some the greasiest al pastor I've ever had.

I was driving down 47th street towards the expressway. The vendor stood idle at a corner when the breeze brought the scent of spit pork and hot maize . I slammed the break and pulled onto the curb. Fell out the car as I opened the door, and crawled those first few steps to the puzzled vendedora.

He took the tortilla from out a steam box and ran it through the pan beneath the marinated spit of skirted pork. His calloused fingers, immune to the hot of the oil. I didn't know he was going to do that, but when I figured it out - I didn't stop him.

To be honest, it wasn't that great. The flavor wasn't there and with no cilantro or onion to add texture it came across as bland.

But when I found the lady selling peanut butter cookies at 95th and Jeffery, I knew I hit the jackpot! She sold them at a dollar-forty per three. A weird pricing structure, but I'm sure she had her reasoning. However, the cookies lacked some of the peanut-butter blast I've come to expect in such a delicacy. Still, the worst peanut butter cookie is better than the world's best snickerdoodle.

What I'm saying is that I have nothing to say and this is me saying it.