Of all the food-related tragedies of not living in LA, perhaps the most tragic is life without pupusas. (For those curious, the most tragic non-food-related tragedy is life without sunshine. But that’s a topic for a whole other blog.)
What makes this even sadder is that I didn’t discover the magic of pupusas until after I left LA. How unfair is that?
Last week, LAist rubbed salt in the wound with a feature on pupusas, describing them thusly: ” It tastes like the result of an unsweetened pancake mating with a quesadilla.” Which probably doesn’t sound like the best thing in the world, but it is.
My experience of LA pupuserias is extremely limited, but I heartily recommend the stall at the Hollywood farmers market for a tasty start to a Sunday.
That’s my homesickness for the day. Now back to my coronation chicken sandwich.