I have a major weak spot for Mexican food. I’ll shove pretty much anything into a tortilla and call it a taco; rice and beans kept me alive during rent week in my early twenties living in New York City; and margaritas are my desert island drink.
This love affair likely stems from my family’s frequent trips to the extremely inauthentic “La Carreta” restaurant that was just a couple blocks away from my childhood home. Refried beans smothered in melty cheese are in my blood.
