When asked what they’d like their last meal on Earth to be, I’m sure that most people often respond with an order of expensive steak—possibly Kobe beef—and costly truffles, flanked by a bottle or two of the priciest wines in the back of the cellar.
Not me though. Ni ahora, ni nunca.
For the past few months, all I’ve had in my hemorrhagic head has been the vague memories of Tulsa’s Mr. Tacos, 130 N. Lewis Ave. I had driven by the Mexican joint sometime earlier in the year, vowing to hopefully return and sample their wares, each day building a kind of dangerously delicioso mythology around the place, fearful that their tacos and my mouth would never meet in connubial bliss.
The past Saturday, however, I officially had what I’d like to be my last meal on Earth.