Taco ‘bout taste

I’ve heard it said perfection is an illusion. And I subscribe to that belief, especially when it comes to relationships, parking spots and my ability to fold a fitted sheet. Well, apparently there’s one more thing it applies to. Finding the perfect taco in Los Angeles.

A fool’s errand? Maybe. But if there’s an impossible dream worth chasing, it’s one wrapped in a warm corn tortilla.

Here’s the thing: Los Angeles is a taco mecca. And its cool cousin Long Beach is no slouch either. The options are endless: street vendors, mom-and-pop shops, taco trucks with lines longer than the DMV.

Each taco has its own personality. Some spicy and unpredictable (like my high school girlfriend). Others rich and comforting (see previous joke). There are hard-shell and soft shell. Open and closed. Trying to choose a favorite is like trying to pick your favorite child, which, frankly is easier on some days than others.

I’ve tasted the smoky al pastor. I’ve savored shredded beef so tender it brought a tear to my eye, and a permanent stain to my shirt.

And the fish tacos? If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

But how can just one be THE taco? It feels wrong when they all bring something special to the table (see what I did there?).

In my search I realized something: every day in L.A. is Taco Tuesday. There’s no waiting for a specific day of the week—great tacos are available, at all hours, in all places. You can have a breakfast taco in the morning, a carnitas taco at lunch, and a late-night street taco after an evening of bad decisions.

And there lies the beauty of this City of Tacos. Just when you think you’ve found the one, another contender pops up, winking at you from the next food truck. Or calling your name from a modest taqueria tucked behind a laundromat.

I don’t want to spoil the end of the story for you, but I haven’t found the perfect taco. The search continues, and every bite is its own reward.

Viva la búsqueda. Long live the search.

Family unties

In his most recent Ad Contrarian newsletter (which you can and should subscribe to here), the great Bob Hoffman says, “Anytime you see the word journey you know you’re in for some massive bullshit.”

The same can be said anytime your employer calls a town hall meeting—inevitably at the most inconvenient time—either in the lobby or on Zoom to tell the underpaid, overworked staff they’re more than just employees working for the man: they’re family.

While this point of view occurs at client side companies I've worked at, I've heard it from literally every agency I've ever been at. For some reason, the commeraderie and casual environment, combined with the rapid-fire wit and intelligence that pervades agency hallways and open office seating is frequently mistaken by leadership for a bond and allegiance that extends beyond the paycheck.

Clearly family means different things to leadership than it does to say Merriam Webster, who defines it as a group of people who live together, or one that is similar to another related by blood, marriage, law, custom or members of one’s intimate social group.

Some greeting card companies and inspirational posters (with and without kittens) define family as people in your life who want you in theirs. The ones who accept you for who you are. Love you no matter what, and would do anything to see you smile.

When was the last time an agency gave a rat’s ass about you smiling?

The truth is when agencies and companies talk about family, it’s more along the lines of the Sopranos. As long as you’re making them money, you’re part of the family. But the minute you’re not, or decide to leave, you're dead to them.

I worked for a company for two years. A lot of that time was spent writing about their core values, with emphasis on how they cared for their employees and considered them *checks notes* family. When I gave notice, I wanted to meet with the VP of Marketing to thank him for everything. Two meetings were scheduled, two meetings were cancelled. I wrote him a nice, personal email afterwards. Never heard back.

From the minute he heard I was going, as far as he was concerned I was gone. And it was a really nice email. Oh well.

When I worked at an agency that shall go nameless—as all agencies within walking distance of the beach, Sancho's Tacos and Pacific City should—they unexpectedly and unceremoniously let a group creative director go who, unlike the executive creative director that tied the can to him, was extremely popular and well liked. True to form, it happened Sopranos style: he went out to lunch and never came back. The next day, the executive creative director sent out a bullshit email condescendingly explaining how these things happen, and we're all still family and we'll get past this sad day together.

He didn't even work up a sweat shoveling that hard.

All this is to give you an important safety tip—don't cross the streams. Work is work, and family is family.

It's easy to tell the difference. Real family doesn't need a town hall to tell you who they are.