It was sometime around dinner when I walked into Mariscos Los Arados, 5301 S. Western, and the place was effortlessly humming with hungry people just coming off work and, surprisingly, street vendors coming in to work, walking around to the different tables and selling their wares; I was immediately hit up for a few bucks by a kid selling candy.
But sweets was the last thing I needed, because my body absolutely craved soup, with its hot liquid base, churned in a large metal pot with pieces of meat and chunks of vegetables simmering within, perfectly cooked to comfortably travel with heated ease down my throat, deep into the waiting wading pool of carnal hellfire that is my empty stomach. I needed soup.