I once did the reverse, bringing food in my luggage to Minneapolis. About ten years ago, when my son was in college in Boston, he craved 'real' Mexican food from one of the many taco shops where I live. With him flying from Boston and me from San Diego, we met for a long weekend to tool around the Twin Cities and take in a Vikings game just for fun. So I brought him a carnitas burrito and he devoured it in the airport!
I grew up with about the blandest possible version of Swedish cooking - where being edgy is putting carrot shreds in the lime Jello and spiking the punch bowl with ginger ale.
We spent three years in Phoenix, when I was 5 to 7 years old. There was a grand opening for a grocery store in the area, and they were having a promotional event giving away free food. That was enough to draw my parents. They had strung up a sheet as a wall, and painted the sheet to look somewhat like it was water, with fish, etc. Then there was a fishing pole and you would cast a line over the sheet, and someone on the other side would attach a food item to the line, and you would retrieve the line with the food item attached.
When my parents did that, what came back was a can of tamales. My father was greatly disappointed, as that was not food he would ever eat. But food could not be thrown out or discarded, so the can came home with us. And one day, while Dad was working, Mom fixed the tamales for lunch. Now there was nothing fancy about the tamales; they were probably mediocre at best. Simply corn flour with meat, wrapped in paper (not corn husks), and packed in a diluted red sauce.
But to a boy who had never encountered food such as this, it was the most spectacular thing my taste buds had ever encountered. I was sure that I had just eaten the food of the gods. Soon after we returned to Minnesota, far away from such cuisine.
Then I moved to California in 1973, and wasted little time getting reacquainted. First meal DW ever cooked for me, early in our relationship, was chicken enchiladas.
And after we were married, my first job was in San Bernardino, and our Latina office manager gave some pointers. And that was when I got acquainted with taco trucks. Like the food truck that parked every day about six blocks from our office, and would have lines of people 50-deep at lunch time.