Hans' Homemade Ice Cream - Santa Ana

One Friday, a few weeks ago, I was at The Chippy for my weekly dose of fish. Yes, it was fish and chips, because what better way is there to get your essential omega-3 fatty acids than having it battered, fried, and crunchy, served atop french fries?

Then I found the answer: a dessert of banana ice cream as chaser.

Even better: I didn't have to pay for it. Next to the order line was a sign scribbled on a dry erase board, which proclaimed: "Today's Special: Free Banana Ice Cream With Every Combo Purchase."

So after my oh-so nutritious lunch, I claimed my complimentary scoop -- a fluffy, whipped-up-with-air, frozen amalgam of sugar, milk, and cream packed with so much banana flavor it can be classified as a monkey narcotic.

"How'd you like the ice cream," the Chippy guy asked later.

"Awesome," I said, "did you make it?"

"Oh no. It's from this little place I like in Santa Ana."

"Ah, Hans' Homemade," I said, obviously very satisfied with myself.

"Yes!" he said surprised, "You know it?"

"Yup, but I had no idea they had banana."

So after a long time away, I made my way back to the source of this divine dessert. Partly because The Chippy wasn't going to offer it every Friday and partly because I couldn't wait until Friday even if they did.

I found Hans' the same way I left it almost a decade ago. It is just as it always was: an ice cream parlor caught in a time warp. The place oozed old-time parlor nostalgia -- it looks cribbed from a Norman Rockwell scene of Main Street U.S.A. circa 1945. A bar area is still equipped with cushy stools and phosphates are still on the menu.

Unfortunately, the banana ice cream was not. Not that day, at least. So instead, I took their green tea ice cream ($3.50 a scoop) as a substitute.

Though it possessed Hans' characteristic fluffiness, the flavor was unlike any green tea ice cream I've ever had before: too sweet and strangely minty...too minty. It was so minty, in fact, that I wondered whether the peppermint stick flavor in the tub adjacent to it had seeped in by osmosis.

Whatever it was, I didn't like it. Of the 55 flavors that Hans puts on the roster, this wouldn't be one I'd vote to keep, especially if he's making it instead of that amazing banana!

Hans' Homemade Ice Cream
(714) 979-8815
3640 S Bristol St
Santa Ana, CA 92704

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Brasserie Pascal - Newport Beach

Irvine Farmers' Market - Irvine

Don't be like me: Don't put off visiting the Irvine Farmers Market. Though I've lived in the city for more than 15 years and was both an undergraduate and graduate student at UCI, it wasn't until last Saturday that I made my pilgrimage.

What spurred my sudden resolve? Well, I had to catch an early Saturday morning screening of Food, Inc. at the University Town Center Edwards. It's the only theater in O.C. to show it. And since I was up anyway, I made it a point to flip-flop over to the weekly gathering of local farmers, which takes place on the same parking lot.

As it turns out, the film and the farmers' market foray could've been billed as a double feature -- one complements the other. Food, Inc., a muck-racking exposé on the factory food system, scared the bejesus out of me; and the farmers' market suckled me back from depression with proof that there is still some hope left in the world.

Here in the embrace of rows upon rows of just-picked produce, I found solace. It's like a mother's soothing voice reassuring you after waking up from a nightmare. It seems to purr, "There there, it'll be alright...here, have a nectarine."

But moreover, for people like me, who are zombies to the supermarket produce aisle, the experience is like unplugging from The Matrix. At the Irvine Farmers' Market, reality exists in brighter Technicolor, where sunlight, fresh air and human interaction reign.

Here's an example of the later: I stopped by a stall stocked with all the vegetable components to make a Filipino dish I love called pinakbet. As I was admiring long beans the length of whips and bumpy-skinned bitter melon, the Filipina proprietor started a conversation.

I asked her about the ampalaya (that's Tagalog for bitter melon). But since that's about the only Tagalog I speak, she finds out quickly that I wasn't Pinoy, which seemed to make her even more excited that I was interested in it.

"Oh! This is great with ground beef! Slice it up, stir fry it with the meat, garlic, onion, and some oyster sauce!" she said.

"Should I soak it in salt first to get the bitterness out?" I pressed on.

"Oh no. I don't do that. The bitterness is good for you. He eats it raw," she said as she pointed towards her Caucasian husband, who was quietly nodding off in a lawn chair behind her, "it's good for lowering his blood sugar."

Then, after I paid her for my haul, she goes over to a bin, grabs an armful of eggplants, and gives it to me for free. "This is for tortang talong," she winks.

Think that could ever happen at a supermarket?

But this gathering is not just about getting to know the people who grow your organic and locally-grown produce. You'll also become acquainted with fresh fish mongers, vendors selling roasted corn on the cob, scratch bakers, even a sausage purveyor. Over the years, this farmers' market has grown to become a large, shapeless amoeba-like maze of vegetable virtue and hand-crafted goods.

To find out more about it, read the detailed report by Chubbypanda on OC Food Blogs and the post by Professor Salt wrote on his blog.

Whatever you do, just go. Either to this one, which is conveniently held every Saturday (8 a.m. - noon) rain or shine, or the others located all over Orange County.

My only other advice: Bring money and sunscreen. It is a bright and sunny world out there.

Irvine Farmers' Market
The University Center at the corner of Bridge and Campus (across from UCI)
Every Saturday, 8 a.m. - Noon (rain or shine)

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Thai Cafe - Irvine

Thai Cafe surprised me. I did not expect to like the place. I'd been avoiding it, even though it's been open for a year. It's antecedent was, after all, Thai Kitchen, which seemed to cater to Western palates with harmless, but softball renditions and some dishes that weren't actually Thai (Mongolian Beef anyone?)

But Thai Cafe was different, more complex, more bold, more everything. If I had to find a way to explain the difference, I'd say it was the location. It took the place of El Conejo, a taqueria that was oddly out of place, surrounded by a burgeoning Asian plaza. Thai Cafe seemed to rise to the expectations that came with the area.

We ordered standard, run-of-the-mill, unchallenging dishes to be sure; but all were done very well.

The mee krob ($7.50), a crispy nest of fried rice noodles, towered in a sky high mound, topped with a crowning tuft of cilantro and flanked by fresh bean sprouts and carrots. In the noodle tangle, shrimp, chicken, fried onions, and scallions were suspended inside the matrix with a sticky, sweet and sour glaze. The dish had a surplus of ingredients and flavor.

The pad see ew ($9.95) was peppery, and the sweetness of soy thoroughly seeped into the supple noodle sheets. Balancing it out were Chinese broccoli's bitterness and crunch.

Their larb kai ($8.95), a cold salad of ground chicken, used too much sugar, not enough lime juice, but the mint grounded what could've been cloying. The beef in the beef panang ($10.95) were tender, sliced against the grain, wading in a caramel-hued gravy that reached its potential when poured over rice and enjoyed like the coconut-tempered curry it is.

So how does Thai Cafe rank among Orange County's best Thai restaurants? Well, it's still no Thai Nakorn; but it's no Thai Kitchen, if you get my drift.

Thai Cafe
(949) 559-5382
14715 Jeffrey Rd
Irvine, CA 92618

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Watermarc - Laguna Beach*

*Special Thanks to Brekkie Fan for the tip on Watermarc.

Champion Food Co. - Irvine

I'm already well into my thirties, but I'm still drinking boba milk tea. Well, not all the time, but for some reason, I'm always keenly aware of myself when I do.

I consider boba drinks funnier than anything that has a cocktail umbrella in it. It's because of those oversized straws, the plastic sealed-on tops with the cartoon characters, and the milk tea itself -- a chocolate-milk liquid more apt to be seen in a toddler's sippy cup than in a grown man's beverage.

Anthony Bourdain had a boba drink in a not-so-recent episode of No Reservations and he looked damned silly sucking on one -- the culinary equivalent of John Wayne riding on top of a coin-operated mechanical horsey and going "Wheee!"

And the capper, of course, are those tapioca marbles. These are the nuclei of the frivolity: Dark-colored, sticky, starchy balls that settle on the bottom of the cup like prayer beads, but serve no purpose other than to be chewed and act as a potential choking hazard.

The adult in me can really do without them. These are empty calories I can better allocate to more substantial foods. Also, it's usually the drink that I'm after. But the Asian in me compels my brain to always ask for it. Plus, it's tradition. Back in college (damn, that was a long time ago) my friends and I used to drive to Monterey Park from Irvine just to get a boba drink.

Ah, the folly of youth.

Nowadays when I hanker for a throwback to those simpler, stupider times, I go to Champion Food Co. in Irvine where they still go through the trouble of assembling the drinks to order.

Other purveyors premake the milk tea and ladle it out like soup from a refrigerated trough. The folks at Champion? They're stirring, mixing, doing actual measurements. A squirt of sweetened condensed milk here. A spoonful of simple syrup there. And also, they use crushed ice, not cubes. This makes all the difference. Ice cubes become obstacles, an impedance for your straw to get at that final boba ball.

For snacks, Champion offers tea eggs and other things to go with your carb-ladened drink. This time, I ordered something I hadn't seen there before: squid balls.

When I did, the gal walked over to the fridge, took out a plastic ziplock bag with five or so golf-ball sized orbs, deposited them to a fryer basket, and then sealed them shut behind the door of a small metal box that had a countdown clock on the front (no, it wasn't a microwave or an oven).

What came out of it about a minute later was golden brown, hot, crispy, and presumably not fried, although it sure tasted like it was.

The texture was as springy and resilient as an actual squid, except even more so. It seemed hellbent to exact revenge against Nemo (the Captain, not the fish). And on that front it was successful: Each ball was caked in spicy powder, some of which I accidently inhaled through my nostrils (painful).

Ah, the folly of adulthood.

Champion Food Co.
(949) 857-6686
14775 Jeffrey Rd # L
Irvine, CA 92618

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SimBaLa - Rowland Heights

Food blogs are a wealth of information, but they only help if you can remember what that information is.

I had read about SimBaLa in Rowland Heights from a number of sites similar to the one you're reading now. So when I was in the area, I remembered enough to seek it out. But what to order? Not so much.

If I did, I would've known to try the sausages. That's what they're known for, you see. Not only that, there's also what's done to them: SimBaLa's sausages are served with wild-and-crazy toppings like kiwi, peach, chocolate, or strawberry jam.

Suffice it to say, because of my poor memory, you won't be hearing about how well chocolate goes with Taiwanese sausage. Instead I tried the pork chop rice ($5.75), which was the classic example of what a proper Taiwanese-style fried pork chop ought to be: bubbled with a crunchy batter, sweet as candy, and a perfect partner to rice.

What I didn't like were the sides, which seemed to have been slimed with warm ectoplasm -- a cornstarch-y goo that covered the corn niblets and stretched out from every spoonful like snot. And there was this scrambled egg and tomato thing that had no business being anywhere in the proximity of my pork chops. A third side item of steamed broccoli would've been fine if it wasn't overcooked to mush.

All could've taken a lesson from the cold celery dish ($3.00) I ordered. Snappy, brisk and refreshing, it was simply prepped to allow the main ingredient to shine. And since it was thoroughly freed of its pesky fibers, every spear was as effortless to eat as the next. The only thing I'd change is the presentation. The dish was unceremoniously served in its plastic takeout container. Would it kill them to put it on a plate?

Spicy beef noodle soup ($6.50) -- a.k.a. niu rou mian -- was punchy, slightly licorice-y, and left my mouth numb from its slow chili burn. In the long-simmered darkness of the brew, hunks of beef braised slowly and tendon turned into softly chewy collagen knobs. Wonderful.

The meat ball vermicelli noodle soup ($5.75) was the niu rou mian's anti-matter. While the former was as brown as a brick, this broth could pass as milk. Its flavor was also the polar opposite. This one was mild and cleansing -- the perfect medium for the glass noodles, elastic strands that had the bounce of bungees.

Next time, I'll remember to try those sausages and ask them to hold the slimy side items. Hopefully I'll have better luck remembering what I write in my own posts.

SimBaLa Restaurant
(626) 581-9885
18489 Colima Rd
Rowland Heights, CA 91748

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Kim Huong's Bun Rieu - Tustin

I know what you're thinking, but no, I haven't written about the bun rieu at Kim Huong. I've waxed poetic on Quan Hop's bun rieu (the homey dish I once described as the more feminine face of Vietnamese noodle soups) and praised Kim Huong's discounted prices on pho, but I haven't shared a word about this particular dish at this particular restaurant.

And not telling you about it is like leaving out Pirates of the Caribbean when I'm talking about Disneyland. Part of the reason is that it's become part of my take-out routine, and as such it disappears into my day-to-day consciousness, like brushing my teeth. What I'm saying is that I eat Kim Huong's bun rieu a lot. Their number is on speed dial, and when I call they usually know who I am, what I want, and that I'll be there to pick it up in ten minutes.

That's another thing about it: they'll package it up for me. The soup in its own container. Accoutrements in a baggie. Noodles in its own bowl. Only assembly required? Pour the broth on top of noodles. Squeeze the lime. Pile on as little or as much of the included roughage. Dinner's done.

Above the convenience, the price is rock-bottom low; because if I'm anything else besides a creature of habit (and lazy); I'm a cheapskate. The pre-tax price: $3.60 (it's $0.50 less if you opt to dine in).

The soup is wondrous and light. It's just slightly spicy, mostly sweet and tomatoey. Actual tomatoes are present, softened by the heat of the brew and slowly melting into it. There are floating rafts of fried tofu and compressed, meatloaf-like morsels made from ground pork, crabmeat, and what I guess is beaten egg as a binder. And of course, those wispy noodles that dissolves instantly in your mouth.

On the side, as tradition dictates, a plastic thimble containing a purplish paste that reeks like crab toe jam (this one I use very, very sparingly). A packet of ketchup, it is not; but neither is this typical take-out food...well, I guess for me, it is.

Kim Huong
(714)838-6651
17311 McFadden Ave # B
Tustin, CA‎ 92780

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Cambinos Asian BBQ - Cypress

Move over Kogi BBQ, I'm in for a new obsession: Cambinos Asian BBQ. And for this one, I can unplug the Twitter because Cambinos is a stationary brick-and-mortar, open at regular hours, and only found here in O.C. Although it may never get lavished with Newsweek articles or NPR segments, in my opinion, it deserves all of that and more.

So far, it has relied on good, old fashioned word-of-mouth from the strength of its product. A product, which other than the word BBQ, has nothing in common with what Kogi serves.

At Cambinos, BBQ means meats from all that clucks, moos, oinks or swims, marinated with flavorful things and chargrilled to order. Some are lubed in sauce prior to service. Some are skewered on bamboo sticks. All are served over dependable jasmine rice and piled on paper plates.

This is backyard BBQ food. The kind of grub common to all Asian family reunions when the charcoal grill is carted out.

And in Cambinos' Mix Plate ($9.95) one gets to enjoy the fruits of the fire without aunties telling you how much weight you've gained or asking you leading questions about your future.

The chicken skewer is burnished with a mahogany sheen and freckled with crunchy char, deeply flavorful and moist. The beef skewer is tender enough to be torn by bare fingers, slightly sweet and perfumed with lemongrass. The beef short ribs is a kalbi doppelganger and explodes with lip-lickin' fatty juces when bitten. A chicken thigh is chopped into strips, glazed in a hoisin-based sauce with a similar purpose as teriyaki. Veggies, like broccoli, red onions, squash, and bell peppers, are also grilled just to heat through, but not enough to wilt.

But the raison d'être is the pork spare ribs. These defy comparison to anything that I've ever had before or since: a citrusy, tangy, garlicky, sauce-covered masterpiece that collapses from the bone in unctuous, sloppy mouthfuls.

It can only be summed up with one word: incredible.

At this point you might ask, "So is it Asian?" Yes, no, and um...I'm not sure. The restaurant's name itself is a portmanteau of Cambodian and Filipino (Cambinos! Get it?!) -- a subtle hint about the nationality of the owner and his wife, respectively.

But any conclusions you may draw from this would be misleading. While there are some Cambodian and Filipino influences, the food is wholly original, born out of experimentation and pluck. And if you asked the owner himself, he'd say it was "camping" food since that's where he honed his recipes.

He is James Sar, a charming fellow who was originally in the steel business and got out when his friends and family encouraged him to open this restaurant last September.

How do I know all this? Simple: the dude told me his story.

My date and I were the only customers there on a Saturday night. So after bringing out our food, he struck up a conversation as he rooted for the Lakers on the flat-screen in Game 3 of the Western Conference Finals. James is like that poker buddy who brings the beer and knows all the good jokes. And when he hosts a party at his house, you RSVP immediately because you know he's going to do his BBQ.

Cambinos Asian BBQ*
(714)484-0511
5721 Lincoln Ave. Ste F
Cypress, CA 90630

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*Special Thanks to Ben Dayhoe for the tip on Cambinos.
**Special Thanks to Robbi for the tip on Annapoorna.

Cream Pan - Tustin

I know what you're thinking: "Wait. Don't you mean Japonaise Bakery & Cafe?"

No, I mean Cream Pan.

Within the last week or so, Cream Pan -- the little bakery that begat Japonaise Bakery & Cafe and disappeared into its offspring's slick new digs last year -- has been reincarnated.

In a sort of restaurant cellular mitosis, Cream Pan has now separated from Japonaise, doing business as its own entity with a new storefront and seating area two doors down. With the move, the Japonaise/Cream Pan organism has taken over its entire building; but the two are still conjoined in the middle by a single heart: its shared kitchen.

Why was this necessary? Well, my guess is that Japonaise was getting too big for its britches. Since it started doing pastas, breakfasts and sandwiches, the line for the cafe dishes choked up the line for the pastries. On some mornings, there would be a traffic jam of people, most of whom didn't know which queue to be in, frustrating themselves and everyone else. Trust me: I've been there.

Now that the problem is solved, you'll find me at Cream Pan, because while I like the breakfast specials, there's really one thing that keeps me coming back: The strawberry croissant ($2.20).

It is easily their single best item. Heck, it's probably the best pastry in the whole of Orange County.

Here's what I have said before about the strawberry croissant in, appropriately enough, OC Weekly's Best Of OC Issue:

It's a pastry perfect in conception, construction and execution. Nothing in its triangular, hand-holdable frame can be improved upon. The croissant flakes off in crisp, buttery sheets; the custard is as cool as silk; and the sliced strawberries are perkier than a giggly, doe-eyed anime schoolgirl. And of course, it's sprinkled with plenty of powdered sugar to make it look like you've just snorted some blow. Japonaise's strawberry croissants are just as addicting.

Now it's even easier for everyone to get their hands on this dessert drug of choice. But don't take this to mean that it will be available whenever you want a fix. As everyone who's ever been denied the pleasure of its wonders knows, these babies sell out faster than the newest model iPhone on Christmas Eve. Come the afternoon, their limited supply is history.

I do have a better solution if you want to ensure your mouth gets its just desserts: their equally wonderful mini strawberry croissants. It's just smaller, bite-sized versions of the original, but it's just as awesome.

The minis, however, are only available by special order and needs to be requested at least two days in advance. Pricing starts at $25 for an 18-count-tray. But trust me, in this Japanese bakery stock split, it's a wise investment.

And if you show up at a dinner party or office potluck with them, you will be anointed the hero -- your reputation cemented as someone who knows where to get the good stuff. But who's to say you can't consume it all by yourself in a dark corner of the house when no one's looking?

Cream Pan
(714) 665-8239
600 El Camino Real
Tustin, CA 92780

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Dumpling & Noodle House - Irvine

When Ezo Noodle Cafe closed, I didn't blink. In the close-to-half-decade that I lived in the area, I never stepped in. I didn't have to. If I wanted ramen, Santoka was only a short jaunt away.

Recently in its place, something called Dumpling & Noodle House went in -- a restaurant name so ambiguous, it left a lot to the imagination. Me? I had visions, hopeful ones, of a Din Tai Fung-like establishment. Purses of soup-filled dumplings in steamer baskets. Or perhaps, hand-stretched noodles. Something different to shake up this tired-old food court.

As I walked closer and closer to it, I knew it was going to be different, but I also realized that I wasn't going to get any xiao long bao when I spied what people were eating. Some were sucking up thick, udon-like strands of noodle out of basin-sized bowls awash in a seething red broth and topped with hacked hunks of crab carcass. Others slurped jja jang myun, more noodles drenched in what looks like crude oil, but what is actually black bean sauce.

If you hadn't figured it out by now (or taken in the clues I left on the pictures above) Dumpling & Noodle House is Korean. Who else but a Korean restaurant would equip every table with a plastic, flip-top water jug and offer complimentary saucers of kimchi with every meal?

The place, as it turns out, is a branch of Man Doo Rang, which has outposts in Buena Park and L.A. In doing research after the fact, I found out that they are known for offering free soda, which explains why one of the nice ladies there motioned to us, pointed at the soda fountains, and said, "Free! Free!"

We got our drinks and got on with our lunch. Water is my beverage of choice anyway.

The noodles in the Ramen Combo ($6.49) -- served in small gold pot with grip handles -- had the familiar Shirley Temple curl and crinkle I associate with Korean instant ramen. And therein lies the problem: it tasted just like it.

The broth was savory, hot, and good; but with it also came a realization: it, too, seemed like it had come from a seasoning packet.

Halfway through the meal, I made the observation to my tablemate, who was plowing through his Dumpling Ramen ($4.99), and he replied, "That's what I was thinking too!".

We were eating the same dish, after all. The only difference was that mine was dumpling-less and came with a side of kim bop -- a cooly refreshing sushi roll packed with crunchy veggies.

I offered some of my kim bop to my other dining companion, who ordered the Steamed Dumplings ($5.49), and was having trouble finishing it. "This is really strong," she remarked. At that point, my tablemate again said, "That's what I was thinking too!" He had the same dumplings in his ramen.

Taking a bite of one, I made it unanimous: these dumplings suffered from a chive-overload, which also made the texture seem like we were chewing on lawn clippings -- the filling was more roughage than meat.

But because we tried only a tiny fraction of what this restaurant offers, I'm not going to write it off just yet. The menu boasts Korean chorizo, katsu, even Korean fried chicken. And there's still that spicy-looking bowl of knife-cut noodle soup with the crab that I saw almost every table ordering...not to mention a whole section dedicated to "Sweet & Sour Dishes", which, I am not sorry to say, I'm going to skip.

Dumpling & Noodle House
(714)508-8989
13256 Jamboree Rd.
Irvine, CA 92602

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Kogi Korean BBQ Taco Truck - Santa Fe Springs

Saturday, May 2, 2009.

This was the night. I could feel it. I was going to finally sink my teeth into something the whole of L.A. had been talking about and enjoying for months. Unless you've been holed up in the Unabomber shack or haven't been reading my entries on Stick a Fork In It, I'm talking, of course, about the Kogi Korean BBQ Taco Truck.

But first, a little history.

Flash back to last October, when out of the blue, I got an e-mail from a person named Alice. She reads Monster Munching, she said, and she wanted to invite me and a few other food bloggers up to L.A. to do a taste testing of a new experiment her family was doing: street tacos, Korean style, served out of a truck.

My brain went wild. A Korean taco truck!? Now that's a great idea! But the event was on a week night. And in L.A.'s K-Town, no less. Disappointed that I couldn't make it, I wrote back to her: Please come down to my neck of the woods. "OC needs this bad!" I implored.

As they say: the rest is history.

Kogi went on to become an overnight L.A. legend and national media darling. No one's ever seen anything like it: a taco truck that used Twitter to rally the masses like the pied piper.

The result were lines that for stretched for hours, which, in turn, inspired blog postings, national news, the constant ire of cops, NPR stories, and Newsweek articles.

To date, they count close to twenty thousand followers on Twitter, who flock to their next landing spot at a typed text message's notice.

Cut to last Saturday, when I came this close to finally rendezvousing with them. After being shooed out of Buena Park by the police, the truck took refuge in nearby Santa Fe Springs. There, on a deserted industrial office park parking lot, I finally caught up with Kogi. But so did about two hundred other people. By the time I took my place in line, the wait was rumored to be two hours long and also, they were running out of food. Being risk averse and freezing, my date and I gave up. We left, taco-less, into the night.

Fast forward to yesterday, Saturday, May 2nd. I had been in constant contact with the Kogi folks about their next visit to O.C., which was to come soon. This time, they said, they were going to keep things on the down low, to avoid run-ins with the law and to keep the crowds to a minimum. The exact location of their next stop wouldn't be revealed to the public until the last possible minute. But it was hinted that it would be Saturday night in Buena Park.

Finally, they revealed their location via Tweet at about 7 p.m. Problem was, it was the right cross streets; wrong city. They Tweeted Buena Park, but the truck was actually in Santa Fe Springs. In fact, it was the same, exact place they'd landed a week before.

We realized the error quickly and corrected our course.

The rest of the night went like this:

7:38 p.m. We arrive at the same Santa Fe Springs spot we'd left empty handed a week prior. But this time, things were different. Not one but both Kogi trucks -- nicknamed Roja and Verde -- were there. Coupled with this and the lower key announcement (also perhaps the unintended geographical error in their Tweet) made the lines almost non-existent. This was the night alright: the night I was going to have those tacos!

7:43 p.m. We file into the queue in front of one of the trucks. It's about six people deep. Since it wasn't quite dusk, I could see who my fellow Kogi stalkers were. Most were in their twenties. Most were Asian. But there were older folks, babies in strollers, dogs on leashes.

7:51 p.m. We get to the front of the line. We place our order. Four tacos. One of each kind. Short rib. Spicy Pork. Chicken. Tofu. Also two burritos with short rib and chicken. Total? $19.80.

7:53 p.m. We step aside to wait for our order. I notice people are taking pics of themselves in front of the truck. I do the same. This, I thought, is something to show the grandchildren -- slightly less significant than the Wright Brothers at Kittyhawk, but still a story to tell.

7:55 p.m. I see that there are more people waiting for their food than standing in line to order.

8:01 p.m. A freight train roars past the office park. The ground shakes. Loud clickety-clacks drown out the chatter of people. A breeze carrying the pungent smell of kimchi blows in my direction. Instinctively, I salivate.

8:08 p.m. Now, no one is in the order line. Now, we are all salivating.

8:11 p.m. A helicopter flies over head. "Look, it's Eyewitness News' Air7!" someone quips. It is not.

8:14 p.m. They call out my name. I approach, but a couple behind us taps me on the shoulder. "Oh, I think that's us," they said to me. I apologize. "Oh are you Ed too?", I said. I should've gone with "Elmo" instead. Fat chance of two Elmo's being at the same place, at the same time.

8:17 p.m. Getting anxious now. I see the pink order forms over their assembly line dwindle down to four. Ours is second. A late comer saddles up to the order window. "Are you Roy?" he asks. "No, Roy's not here tonight...I'm his cousin," the Korean man answers.

8:23 p.m. My name's called. Taking our loot to our car, we devour it under the dim glow of our map light. The tacos didn't take long to finish. Each disappeared after three ravenous bites.

The short rib was a wonderful confluence of fatty, beefy chew and sugary sweetness, dripping yummy grease all over our palms like a good street taco should. The spicy pork was as striking as an al pastor, but more well-mannered. The chicken tasted almost exactly like the pork, but leaner. And the tofu was soaked in something tangy.

In fact, everything was tangy, as if a pineapple or some other fruit were juiced into the marinade. A touch of sesame seeds added nuttiness, but not enough to overwhelm. Topping the tacos: shredded cabbage, wilted scallions. These were Asian flavors all right, but mostly it's playful, fun -- apropos for the venue and the chase.

9:05 p.m. Back at home, we start on the burritos. And we find that they are just as good as the tacos. But since one burrito amounted to about five tacos, it was also more economical. Not to mention, less messy.

9:13 p.m. I burp.

UPDATE: Kogi will be all over O.C. this week. Click here for details. And CLICK HERE for Christian's report. He made it to Kogi's Fullerton stop on Cinco de Mayo!

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Don the Beachcomber - Huntington Beach