Taqueria Vallarta made me switch from burritos to tacos, at least on occasion. Vallarta's tacos are tiny, inexpensive, and greasy, topped with concentrated, grill-stewed meats and soft onion strips cooked down to their essence. The meats are arranged in pinwheels along the inside of a silver, bowl-like surface. They bleed into each other, cabeza tangled up with chicken, chorizo mussing up the pastor. Tellingly, I don't think I've ever eaten these tacos for lunch or dinner, but for the three years I left at the edge of Potrero Hill, near General Hospital, they were the only snack I had.

Like a lot of San Franciscans, I shop at farmer's markets, but I've never been devoted just out of a desire to obtain nice produce directly from farmers. A lot of why I love getting up early -- even before a morning basketball game -- to poke through the stalls at Alemany has to do with the ready-to-eat wares. Yes, Alemany's row of low-profile tents can't touch the Ferry Building's well-publicized armada of awnings, but the prices there are accordingly higher, the clientele less diverse, and the vibe generally tonier and less regular-feeling. When I started going to Alemany, I ate breakfast as I shopped. Usually -- still -- I buy a cold samosa from the Sukhi's stand, and gnaw at it as I rummage through bins for unpocked sweet potatoes and fresh-looking chard. It's never the most perfectly seasoned samosa I have eaten, but for me, it trumps any muffin in town.

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Moving to Los Angeles