EPICANTHUS

You never know where Kogi BBQ’s elusive Korean taco truck will turn up next, but through the miracle of hi-tech it’s trackable on the ‘Net via Twitter. If you’re trying to avoid foreclosure or the ex or El Jéfe Say you’ve been laid off and you’re squatting in an abandoned and foreclosed condo somewhere in L.A. and you need something cheap and good to eat at 2 a.m., you’d be lucky to stumble upon these nomadic Koreano taqueros in some vacant parking lot on Wilshire or on Sunset Blvd. near Ivar, in the Sizzler parking lot (7th & Western) or next to the after-hours snack spot Hodori at the infamous nexus of Olympic and Vermont. Wondrous stuff awaits, like galbi, bulgogi, spicy pork and chicken tacos, binde-dduk (scallion pancakes), pork belly fried rice, breakfast burritos and Red Bull. This is quintessential L.A. dining at street food prices.

KPOP to chase down Korean taco trucks by:

Roy Choi changes his life in three-year increments. Top of his class at the Culinary Institute of America, alternate history has it that Choi started out cooking at Le Bernardin in New York and was the only American to ever work in Iron Chef Michiba’s kitchen. Recently, he has worked as the chef de cuisine at the Beverly Hilton, executive chef at Trader Vic’s, and opened Rock Sugar Pan Asian Kitchen in Century City. Law school: he dropped out. Career as a chef in a 5-Star hotel restaurant: he split. Owner of an Asian fusion joint: reconsidered. Now, he’s dishing out K-Mex deliciousness outta the truck window. While he’s fussing the details, imo is at the grill. A gaggle of K-Girls squat eating plates of galbi tacos while their Nismo GT-R rumbles at the curb and groups of Latin men on bikes double back twice to eyeball the Chino tacqueros and whistle to each other in code. ¡Ojos de ratón!

On the move every hour because La Ley says you have to. Roaming the mean streets of dystopian Los Angeles ’til morning from K-Town to the Westside and all points in between. Lure the night crawlers from their shadowy stoops with fragrant steaming morsels. Long ago a schizophrenic, drugged-out writer imagined this: wired android inbred Anglo-Latino-Asians and mutations of the same ducking under the noren of some food cart to slurp down a bowl of nuevo-Chino noodles and pig intestines, Bladerunner CGI billboards flickering above, crowded lawless streets, anonymous terrorism, organ theft, quickies from deformed replicant side street whores of undecipherable gender on the stroll and hustlers slangin’ counterfeit drugs, not to mention the packs of MBAs and coyotes come down from the hills in search of easy prey.

Stick and move. The Santa Anas are howling, and the City of the Angels is on fire. No bailout cash for a sit-down. Instead, a cross-cultural commissary on wheels is just the thing to hit the spot. Catchy Korean techno fills the smoky night air. Paper plates, tinfoil, orange-stained fingers and a freezing can of Red Bull.

Deja vu—the taco trunk that used to park by the Palomino in NoHo. Long story. Anyway, you could do worse than to hunt down the Korean taco trunk, while it’s still rollin’. But if you find him, remind Chef Choi to pack heat, even if he is a vampire. Choi’s clearly onto something here.

—Yellowkid