Tortilla Wars | Guerras de Tortilla
"Two rival food truck owners competing for the same corner discover that cooperation—and love—taste better"
Tortilla Wars
Guerras de Tortilla
The corner of 5th and Main had room for one food truck. We both wanted it.
"I was here first," I said.
"I have a permit," she countered.
"So do I."
"Then I guess we're both staying."
Her name was Gabriela, and her truck served the best tacos in the city—my opinion, not that I'd ever tell her. My truck served the best burritos. The rivalry was inevitable.
"Your line is blocking my window," she complained.
"Your music is scaring my customers."
"That's Selena. Selena doesn't scare anyone."
"She scares people with taste."
We competed for every customer. Loyalty cards, special deals, Instagram wars. The neighborhood picked sides.
"You're obsessed," my sister said.
"She started it."
"You both need to grow up."
"I'll grow up when I win."
The city announced they were removing one truck from the corner—too much congestion. Only one permit would be renewed.
"May the best woman win," Gabriela said.
"I intend to."
We both lobbied. Petition signatures, community meetings, local news interviews. By the end, I knew more about Gabriela than I'd ever intended—her grandmother's recipes, her single-parent struggle, her dream of a real restaurant someday.
"You're not just a rival," I realized. "You're... competition. Real competition."
"Is that respect I hear?"
"Observation. Don't let it go to your head."
The night before the decision, she showed up at my truck after closing.
"I brought tacos," she said. "Peace offering."
"I don't need peace."
"Then call it dinner." She sat on my truck's step. "I'm tired of fighting."
"You started it."
"Maybe. But I want to finish it differently."
We ate tacos at 1 AM, sitting on the corner we'd both fought for.
"If you win tomorrow, I'm ruined," she admitted.
"If you win, so am I."
"There has to be another way."
"What way?"
"Partner. Combine the trucks. One operation, two menus."
"Partner with you?"
"With me." She looked at me. "I've spent six months hating you. Then I spent the last month realizing I don't."
"What do you feel?"
"Something else. Something that scares me more than losing."
I kissed her. The tortillas got cold.
We presented a combined proposal to the city. One truck, two women, fusion menu. They approved on the spot.
"The enemies became partners," the local news reported.
"More than partners," Gabriela said off-camera.
"Much more."
Gabri-Ana's is the most popular food truck in the city now. We serve tacos and burritos together.
"Remember when you hated me?" she asks sometimes.
"Remember when you stole my customers?"
"I improved them."
"You improved everything."
Tortilla wars—where rivals make the best partners, and love is the secret ingredient.