Michelin-worthy taco trucks. Locavore-Popsicle stands. Foie gras carts. Gourmet cuisine is popping up everywhere. But does the fennel-crusted Berkshire pork belly suffer when it's served near an emergency room? Brett Martin set off on a cross-country search for the most delicious food in the most unlikely places.
And so here we are, under the arc lights, under the Southern California stars, on a picture-perfect summer evening in America. The kids are arriving, headlights swinging slowly down La Brea, down Beverly. They're cruising, looking for parking, checking out the scene at the car wash and gas station on the corner.
I myself am driving a brand-new bright red Ford F-150 pickup truck. This feels important. If you've never been in one of these monsters, it's hard to describe how mighty and right it makes you feel. You understand why men who drive trucks drive like assholes: (a) There's a good chance that, despite mirrors the size of a normal human car's hubcaps, they simply don't see other vehicles. (b) In some larger, existential sense, all other vehicles have ceased to exist. Driving an F-150 makes you want to run over smaller, lesser cars. It makes you want to invade smaller, lesser countries.
I myself am driving a brand-new bright red Ford F-150 pickup truck. This feels important. If you've never been in one of these monsters, it's hard to describe how mighty and right it makes you feel. You understand why men who drive trucks drive like assholes: (a) There's a good chance that, despite mirrors the size of a normal human car's hubcaps, they simply don't see other vehicles. (b) In some larger, existential sense, all other vehicles have ceased to exist. Driving an F-150 makes you want to run over smaller, lesser cars. It makes you want to invade smaller, lesser countries.
