You know his name. He may know yours. You know the t-shirts he wears: they advertise taverns and saloons and dive bars across a patch of the Near North Side and Near West Side without their own food service. There are competitors, there are pretenders, there are rumors of tamale turf wars. There’s even some tragic long-under-the-lamp pizza sold from trucks. Think of the simple five-for-six dollars handmade puerco, pollo or queso delights in masa and cornhusks that his nocturnal rounds lavish onto imbibers. But don’t say his name aloud now, only say it to him when he greets you with a smile and that tamale-filled cooler, as well as those special green and red salsas. “Jefe!” “Claudio!” (Ray Pride)
