Our good friend and food correspondent Cloyd Burke is always asking bartenders and servers around town WHAT’S DELICIOUS? This month we tell you about Halal Food Cart.

I spent much of my life refusing to eat out of food trucks.

During college, I was working in a manufacturing plant, eating lunch out of a food truck that we all called the roach coach. And once I quit that job I vowed never to eat from the back of a truck again.

Well, the older you get, the more you realize there are no absolutes in this life other than, of course, death and taxes, as ol’ Benny Frank used to say.

One day a couple years ago my son asked me to meet him for lunch in a parking lot that had a car wash and a food truck, and I was smart enough to know we weren’t eating at the car wash.

I took a pause. My son was a great eater who almost always tried anything and I guess it was time for me to oblige.

Halal Food Cart on Catawba Avenue is slinging all the Halal favorites.

Gyros. Chicken over rice. Lamb over rice. My son says they’re all great – and raves about their white sauce – but I’ve never tried any of them.

As I scanned the menu board on the front of the truck, one item in particular stood out to me. One that, I felt, had no place being there, like the shiny black rock at the end of Shawshank.

The kind gentleman behind the cash register asked for my order and I blurted out, “Cheesesteak please.”

My son looked at me like I just ordered fried eggs over fried chicken topped with sausage gravy at a vegan restaurant.

The kind man asked if I wanted peppers and onions, and I said no thanks, because, in the words of Ron Swanson, I was looking to eat lunch, not eat something that my lunch eats.

Now, cheesesteaks are like chili or pizza or anything else that people find deeply personal. Just because I like one doesn’t make it good. It just means I like it.

I’ve come to learn over the years that I like a Mediterranean-style cheesesteak. I like mine stripped down and seasoned with lots of salt and pepper, a hint of garlic salt, and topped with American cheese. Maybe provolone.

As I peeled open that foil wrapper and the aroma smacked me in the nose I knew I was going to love it. And love it I did.

Salty. Peppery. Cheesy. Steak that had been chopped and shredded into morsels so the chopped meat didn’t pull out of the bun.

And bread that had just enough structure to hold everything together without being the star of the show.

I’ve returned again and again and I keep threatening to try something else, but by the time I get to the window it’s always, “Cheesesteak, please.”

Each time my guy hands me my sandwich I say thanks, and I tell him he makes the best cheesesteak in town.

Do I take it home and eat it? Never. Greasy sandwiches don’t travel well.

It must be eaten under the old shade trees as you gaze upon people inching forward in traffic. Your happiness contrasting with their frustration makes it taste better.

I can’t promise you’ll love it as much as I do. After all, they pay me to spew opinions and not facts around here.

So if you’re ever in the area, swing by and try it out, and tell ‘em ol’ Cloyd sent you.