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At Gonzales Super Baja-California Taqueria in La Paz, Mexico, the taco maestro stands ready behind the grill. It is 10:00 in the morning and a mass of regular people (no tourists, except for me) crowd the modest taco stand, waiting for their mid-morning snack. Despite the crush, the maestro works slowly, deliberately, making each taco as if it were the only taco, and you his only customer.

The menu is all seafood at Gonzales' place: shrimp, fish, clams, oysters, octopus. The raw critters are dipped in a thick batter, then deep-fried before your eyes, raising this establishment a notch above others that pre-fry. While the seafood sizzles in hot oil, corn tortillas are warmed on a lightly greased griddle. The combination of heat and grease make the tortillas pliable, so a skilled taco eater can roll the tortilla around the fried morsels and condiments of choice, then lift the steaming bundle to her mouth without dribbling ancho chili sauce, shredded cabbage, and cubed tomatoes all over their plastic plates. The novice (read: me, the only tourist) will make a mess; no matter how daintily I try to manoeuver my taco, it will break apart. I reach for a plastic fork.

Behind the griddle, the maestro prepares a pair of fish tacos for a petite woman in heavy makeup and the tailored blue uniform of a hotel. No one but a tourist orders only one taco. Like the animals boarding Noah's arc, tacos are prepared two by two. Two are ordered, dressed, and consumed, then two more, and so on depending upon the hunger of the diner. This petite woman eats four tacos altogether, two fish and two shrimp, each piled high with a different combination of condiments.

Every taco stand, from the most modest wooden street cart to Gonzales' more permanent and elaborate hut, takes pride in preparing the condiments that accompany their wares. Here there are at least 15 choices laid out on plastic trays in the narrow glass cases that front the stand. These cater to the whole realm of senses and appetite: halved sour limes; salty pickled onion; cilantro-flecked fresh tomato salsa; piquant amber chili sauce; cooling jicama salad; shredded crunchy lettuce; spicy sliced radishes; creamy macaroni salad; two guacamoles, one smooth and unctuous, one chunky and bright. In endless variations, condiments make each taco an entirely personal experience. If there is something to be learned from a taco stand on a warm, sunny morning, it is this: if the fried seafood is the bones and blood of a taco, and the tortilla its skin and flesh, then the condiments are its very soul. Like a story or a song, a Gonzales' taco depends upon the will and desire of the diner to bring it to life.