Author: jeffnaper
The taco van is parked on the corner of 5th Avenue and 57th Street. The man behind the counter, with a mean look but trying to look customer-friendly, is indeed Vladimir Putin. He keeps forcing himself to smile, but a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth suggests that he is neither amused nor bemused. He can't help feeling uneasy, keenly aware of his accent, which is thick as borscht. It has taken quite a while for him to learn that almost every New Yorker is speaking with an accent if not accents. It is no accident that the United Nations has picked the Big Apple. Exotic accents are generally valued here. Legal immigrants are doing OK, all things considered. Look, thanks to Putin, there is a constant source of both bewilderment and culinary intrigue for the passing New Yorkers. Even ICE folks are waving and smiling at him, knowing that he is the holder of a gold/green card. In this alternative reality, however, NYC remains really expensive. "Why am I selling cheap tacos here? Because I somehow can still make a living. " Also, needless to say, Putin is free to take charge of himself, going out and about unmolested. Liberty means everything, right?
"You v[w]ant taco?" he’s asking in a voice that rumbles like a tank crossing a cobblestone street. "Is good. Is special recipe. From Mother Russia." Boy, Putin is picking up English pretty fast.
Back to taco. His signature goodie, the "Kremlin Crunch," is a culinary enigma. It is a tortilla filled with what he claims is "one-of-a-kind meat," a mixture so mysterious it has the Food and Drug Administration sending agents disguised as tourists. The secret ingredient, FDA later reports, is likely a rare type of Siberian elk sausage. Paired with a tangy dollop of what Putin calls "Stalin's Sour Cream," it is a champion taco, so we are told.
The line for his van is always long, a testament to the city’s bizarre fascination with its newest, most improbable street vendor. People aren’t just there for the food; they are there for the spectacle. They’ll snap photos, try to get a selfie with the strongman-turned taco purveyor, and ask him probing questions about international relations, to which he will only reply, "Just eat your taco. Is not for talking." Who cares about politics these days?
His most loyal customer is a Wall Street banker nicknamed Uncle Sam, who sees Putin’s taco venture as a masterclass in market disruption. Sam can't wait to show up every day, impeccably dressed, and order a "Red Square Supreme" – a Kremlin Crunch with extra onions and a side of what Putin calls "Czar's Chili." Absolutely fabulous!
"This, Vlad," Sam says, leaning over the counter conspiratorially, "is a stroke of genius. You've cornered the market on international intrigue-infused street food. It's a niche. It's a GOLD mine."
Putin, wiping his hands on his apron, starts grunting. "Is not about money, Sam. Is about… CULTURAL EXCHANGE."
One particularly muggy Tuesday, a new character appears on the scene. A man in a tracksuit, with a neck like a rhino's, sidles up to the taco van. He has a scowl on his face that suggests he has just lost a staring contest with a particularly angry bear. This is Ivan, Putin’s former head of security, who has been tasked with a new, equally daunting mission: managing Putin’s taco van finances. Ivan badly needs a paid job, truth be told. He is sick and tired of grabbing lunch from charitable organizations.
Ivan, alas, is not built for the fast-paced, customer-service-oriented world of NYC street food. He is more comfortable with silent intimidation than with taking orders for "extra cheese." He always prefers to stand next to the van, arms crossed, glaring at customers as if they're a threat to national security.
"You vant taco? Hurry up," he’ll bark. "Is not time for looking at phone." Behaviorally incorrect Ivan can't care less about grammatical correctness,
This doesn't go over well with the selfie-obsessed NYC crowd, and a few Yelp reviews start to trickle in: "Great tacos, but the bouncer is kind of a buzzkill." Yelp? What's that? Ivan feels a bit lost.
One day, a rival emerges. A food truck emblazoned with the B words "Big Beautiful Burgers" pulls up across the street, its horn blaring a triumphant, slightly off-key fanfare. Out steps a man with a spray tan that makes him look like he's been marinated in a vat of Cheeto dust. He wears a tuxedo T-shirt and a MAGA hat, and his name is, inexplicably, Winwin. He acts like the new sheriff in town, not the new kid on the block. Onlookers are everywhere, expecting an imminent turf fight. Superbusy New Yorkers always have time for a free blockbuster show.
Given his vote-getting campaigner's background, Winwin can't help but stand on top of a milk crate, shouting, "My burgers are the best! They're so big, so beautiful. They'll make your belly great again! Don't eat the sad, little Russian taco!" With a bullhorn, Winwin goes on to remind everyone of Putin as the former Bully of the Century. "Let's Boo the Bully!" Boo...Boo...Strangely, while booing, people lining up for Putin's tacos don't move away. Tacos sell. Don't ask me why.
With fans coming his way, or so he thinks, Putin remains unfazed. He stares back at Winwin with the cold, unblinking eyes of a man who has seen things. He then turns to his customers and says, "Winwin is loud. His food is lousy. My taco… my taco is strong like [a] bear." So, the taco guy is also a taco bear.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, the man who has once been the leader of a powerful nation, finally finds his true calling on a street corner in New York City, selling tacos with a side of subtle geopolitical humor. He isn't rich, not in the traditional sense, but he has something more valuable: a captive audience, a loyal customer base, and a business rival who has just been outmaneuvered. No blood spilled. No money lost. Taco rules.
Meanwhile, the media folks descend upon the street corner, hoping to turn it into a culinary battleground. News crews from CNN and Fox News set up shop, interviewing bewildered tourists and locals about their preferred fast-food autocrat.
"I’m a fan of the Kremlin Crunch," one woman tells a reporter. "It’s got a certain… geopolitical gravitas."
"Geopolitical gravitas? What might that be?" The reporter asks the Kremlin Crunch fan.
"I don't care. I simply like to pick up mouthful words. I don't mind eating words either, to be honest with you." The curvy reporter lets go of her overweight interlocutor immediately. So much for this news cycle.
The end.
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