Carne asada fries never taste so good as they do at 2:30 after a long night of debauchery.
Drunk-tagged trash can outside La Posta, San Diego.
Late night revelers are always in need of fortification, even if they sometimes don’t realize it. When I’m out past my bedtime, I’m particularly inclined to hit take-out stands, whether that’s tacos in Tijuana, döner kebabs in Dublin, hot steamy Nutella-slathered crepes in Paris, or those thin-crusted, folded-in-half, snarf-em-on-the-spot slices of pizza studded with diced Canadian bacon you can find near some Montreal bars.
Around San Diego, taquerías are my late-night default option. Drive-though ceviche is an option at Los Panchos (though my friend Dr. Noggin* has jettisoned them after getting hold of a bad clam that wrecked her gut). Pollo asado at La Fuente works if you don't mind the friendly jostling of the dance crowd pouring out of the club a block away. But my sentimental favorite is the carne asada at La Posta. Yeah, there’s better to be had, but when you’ve got your swerve on and before you head to bed, it's a hot, satisfying breather that allows you pause and reflect before soldiering on: "Is bedtime really all it's cracked up to be?"
* A pseudonym, but not for some besotted alter-ego. No, Dr. Noggin is a neurologist whose vices include drinking, smoking, culinary battles with her family, and hanging out with me.
Goes well with