“S-sure!” Devon pulled over a table and Ali, burying himself fully in his last taco, helped to pull a chair.

Up close, Julio Luis Vasquez looked even more like an author than on the panel. He was neatly, if conservatively, dressed in lecturer’s tweed with small round glasses. His goatee was a cloudy grey, but still holding on to a few patches of the original color, which must have been coal black at one point. His eyes twinkled, alert and bright, but the bags under his eyes suggested many nights without rest.

After some polite introductions, Julio took out his own taco and gave it a deep bite. He closed his eyes, sighing with contentment.

“Dios mio… that is good.”

“Does it… uh… taste like home?” asked Devon.

“Oh, not at all,” Julio said. “I am from Spain and tacos are not Spanish food, so I did not grow up with this.” Julio pronounced Spain like “Ehs-pain,” an accent which Devon had never heard before. “But I have been to Mexico, and this is far, far too fancy. Over there, taco