I’m still in Texas, I’m still hungry, and I still want tacos! I caught wind of a place over on Fulton that sells some amazing street tacos. The wife and I are both still living out of our suitcases in a company-sponsored hotel while trying to navigate our way out of paperwork hell with the new place. Street tacos sound like the perfect way to tell the universe to shove it! I’m gonna eat delicious food from a truck with my bare hands while standing up. So, after a quick stop at a liquor store for a drink, tequila for me and gin for Wife, —oh! And some cash! They don’t take cards where we’re heading— We were destined for El Taconazo.

Oh… That’s Ghetto…

We pulled up to a sketchy corner store with a trailer parked alongside it. A dude was standing at a poster board adorned folding table outside hocking bootlegged movies from a giant 3-ring binder. He was quite distinguished. Directly across the street was a funeral home that, from the looks of it, was hosting a gathering for the loved ones of a dearly departed. A pair of stray dogs came sniffing around from across the train tracks. I named them Charles and El Jefe. They were cool. But anyhow! Sketchy!

We parked up the street a bit and made our way over to the line, which didn’t seem too daunting; a handful of people. There was chatter in Spanish all around us, the menu board was bilingual and a sign which read “Please have your order ready when you approach the window” made us hunker down and figure out what we wanted. That was easy: EVERYTHING! We ordered a Quesadilla and one of every taco they offered: Fajita (grilled skirt steak), Barbacoa (roasted beef cheek), Lengua ([usually] boiled beef tongue) and Trompo (marinated, [spit] roasted pork). Oh yeah! And an order of Frijoles Charros, whole stewed pinto beans. I needed some non-meat thing to help push it all through. Nothing better than beans for that! The line subsided quickly, and we arrived at the window to order. I rattled off what we wanted and paid. Three minutes later we walked away with a sack full of food, enough for 2, for $14. Brilliant!

Is It Worth It?

The Quesadillas were wrapped together in foil, as were the tacos, two to a package. Small disposable, capped soufflé cups came alongside filled with a couple of familiar sauces: a dark, earthy ground chile ancho based salsa and a smooth, creamy chile verde that was made even more creamy by the addition of some avocado. There were also several little foil balls hastily tossed in the sack. Each contained a wedge of lime and a helping of diced cilantro and onion, the perfect accompaniment.

The Quesadilla was simple: a corn tortilla filled with queso Oaxaca, fajita meat and lightly seared on both sides. It was light and crispy, well balanced and just lovely. The fajita meat filling was perfectly seasoned and perfectly cooked. It was chewy, juicy and dense with deep overtones of garlic and beef drippings. It was cut perfectly by the bright lime and sharp onion.

All of the tacos were equally wonderful. The Fajita Taco was filled with the same meat filling as was the quesadilla, freshly seared and delicious. The Trompo was our other favorite. Prepared summarily, freshly seared and incredibly flavorful. The heavy garlic and pepper flavors mixed with a traditionally sweet undertone of pineapple. Coupled with the fresh mix of topping and some spicy sauces, this was also off the chart. The Barbacoa, an acquired taste that I love, was strong and pungent. It needed no extra dressings or aromatics. The deep beefy flavor stood alone, noble. The chewy Lengua, an acquired texture I also love, was just like I remember having as a kid on special occasions: fatty and fibrous, delicate and smooth. The grain of the meat seemed to soak up any juices making it spongy and full of the surrounding tastes.

I Think I’m In Love

Lastly, I had the Frijoles Charros. Have you ever seen Ratatouille? You know the one: with the rat chef. Well, there’s a scene where the hard-ass food critic, Anton Ego, played by the late and skilled actor Peter O’Toole, goes into the restaurant with the intention of writing a destructively scathing review of the new chef in town. Upon taking his first bite, Ego, in a stunningly directed dramatic scene change, is brought back to his childhood. The 8-year old Anton comes back into the house, sniffling, after having wiped out on his bike. He’s gently consoled by his mother, sat at the kitchen table and given a steaming bowl of his mom’s home cooked food. He is soothed. I experienced the director’s vision of that scene with the first spoonful. I tasted hand-cleaned and sorted pinto beans, freshly prepared aromatics and hours of hard work slow cooking, all while continuing to struggle through the daily tasks it takes to protect the things you cherish most. For mama, it was us. For Chef it is his livelihood, his work: his food. We finished our food, and I went back to order four more tacos.

And Now I’ll Contemplate My Existence.

It’s not too difficult to identify good food when you see it. Describing it, however, often seems to escape. I guess that’s why the best compliment I ever received while I was cooking was listening to a buzzing room fall quiet once the food is served. Chewing, grunting, pointing and maybe a couple of one-word sentences. I went out looking for a good meal for cheap. I found that and much more at El Taconazo. On a scale of tip-the-hat (low) to shank-the-chef (hight) I can say, without any remorse, that I’m gonna shank the SHIT out of this chef. Like D-E-D dead. I kinda feel bad about orphaning children, but I’m reasonably sure I’ll have paid for some if not most of their college education by the time I’m done. In fact, I went back twice more that week. Go to Fulton. Eat here. You’ll thank me later. OH! And say “hi” to Charles and El Jefe!

Chef Shanker

Keeping the world in balance.
Have you ever eaten something so delicious it made you angry?