"There are a lot of instances when I experience malignant FOMO as a vegetarian: Often what I’m eating pales in comparison to the meat options or just feels like something I could’ve made at home. But I have never, ever felt left out, neglected, or overlooked at Calaca, a teeny-tiny Mexican restaurant a couple of blocks away from my apartment in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Even though the menu is nearly as small as the space itself, vegetarians are well taken care of. Tacos and quesadillas aren’t filled with mushy squash or slithering roasted peppers; instead, they’re stuffed with huitlacoche (a.k.a. a savory, earthy, funky, delicious fungus that grows on blighted corn), roasted corn, and cotija. The tostadas hit the perfect equilibrium. They’re so crisp they shatter, yet they’re still sturdy enough to hold a pile of refried beans topped with queso fresco, thick slices of avocado, and pico de gallo. And if that’s not enough to leave me satisfied, I order some snacks, which aren’t throwaways or fillers: queso with mushrooms and pickled onions; guacamole with cotija and homemade chips; elote; or a couple of their homemade tortillas. From my spot at the bar, where the $5 happy hour margaritas are easier to access, I look over the small, candle-lit room, squint to spot any minor celebrities (and by that I mean the coolest girl in my college class or that culture writer for the New York Times), and take comfort in the fact that I’m not jealous of anyone around me—even if it’s clear they’re thoroughly enjoying their carnitas and mahi-mahi and red snapper. I’m loving my corn smut just as much." - BySarah Jampel
