Then there were the tacos. Every time I passed a taco truck, I pulled over and ate at least one. Ricky's was an exception. It took me longer than it should have to find that truck, and by then I decided that I'd have to have three, just because. There was one fish taco, one shrimp taco, and one mixed one—they were simple, buttery and fried, with just a little sauce on the top and a sprinkling of vegetables on top. They were nothing like my other favorite taco from the Grand Central Market: lengua swimming in braising sauce with cilantro, and onion. If you don't like tongue, you're missing out, because that taco was a revelation.