When you start putting the words “gas station” near the word “taco” the mind begins to wander in a less-than-culinary direction. Let me assure you, however, that the mind is wrong. As unimpeachable evidence, I present to you: El Serranito. I stubbed my toe on this diamond in the rough while my family was in the midst of a very stressful move across the country. We sold our home, we purged most of our worldly possessions, and we flung ourselves across this pandemic-stricken land with our hands clenched into fists and our cheeks streaked with tears. When we finally slid to a stop here in Georgia, we had been through the ringer. Two or three tornado warnings in Kansas City, some biblical flooding in Little Rock, a Taco Bell… it was rough. We needed comfort. We needed familiarity. We needed El Serranito.