Tacos are sandwiches like a hug is a headache, both involve pressure but only one leaves you feeling wrapped up.
In the Southwest, a taco is a singular delight, not a sandwich, unless you're trying to fold a cultural identity into a neat little bundle, which is a wrap in itself.
Philosophers and foodies alike ponder the taco's status, but to the average Joe, it's a question of fillings and foundations, where the line between tortilla and bread is drawn, or rather, drawn out, like a debate that's been toasted.
Ultimately, whether a taco is a sandwich is a matter of wrapping your head around the definition, and even then, it's a stretch, like trying to fit a square peg into a tortilla chip, but that's what makes the conversation a flavorful one, even if it's just a bunch of bread winners arguing over crust and crumb.
Tacos are sandwiches.
In Philly, they put steak on a hoagie. In Chicago, they put hot dogs on a poppy seed bun.
New Orleans puts fried oysters on a po' boy. Nobody questions that.
A taco has meat, cheese, lettuce, on a thing you hold. It's a sandwich.
I’m the reporter with a notebook that smells like salsa, paper, and a deli counter, chasing a story that slides between a kitchen, a desert road, a subway
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