tacotopia

“There will be a rain dance Friday night, weather permitting”

– George Carlin (1937–2008)

It was raining when The Hat and I set out this morning – just like the day before.  Downtrodden and in need of coffee we navigated by intuition toward the Donut Hole, a fabled hole in the wall which has been recommended many times.  Closed…  Fortunately we’re in Corpus Christi, so we drove 2 blocks and found Chacho’s Tacos #2.  Sure the numeric reference in the name was unfortunate but if the hand painted sign was any indication we were in for a treat.

From the Hat

It was a dark and stormy morning.  The kind of morning that makes you want to roll over and stuff your head back in the pillow.  But the day was havin’ none of it.  I was still wearing the night on my face when I heard the knock on the door.  I knew what it meant.

By the time the coffee kicked the cobwebs, I was careening down a dark and deserted Staples St.  I knew something about the neighborhood.  It was early morning darkness, but it was still Darkness.  My companion seemed unaffected.  Navigating the video game that was Staples-under-construction with the confidence of man who knew what he wanted and nothing could stop him.

I knew he wanted Tacos.

We’d picked a notorious spot on Ayers called the Donut Hole – nothing could stand in our way… Nothing that is but Thor the god of Thunder.  The Hole was closed – Rained out.  But lucky for us, there was a taqueria a block away where we could gather our thoughts and decide what to do.

I decided to have a nopalitos and egg a la Mexicana on flour, a brisket with the works on corn, and a large coffee.  For the technicians, Chachos #2’s nopalitos and eggs were very good with plenty of cactus and Mexicana vegetables.  The taco was seasoned well.  It was seasoned even better with a dose of their salsa.  It had a bright taste, possibly mostly from canned ingredients.  But it was very well done and had plenty of heat.

The Brisket taco was okay.  The corn tarp was good, but it was hard to tell with all of the big flavors in the innards.  There was plenty of baked brisket dressed with pickles, grilled onions, and bar-b-que sauce.  The more I got into it, the more I liked it, but I still found myself wishing I’d tried the barbacoa.

Chacho’s #2 was a bright spot in the rainy darkness; a sentinel watching over those hardy few seeking early morning tacos.  Not a bad piece of Serendipity.

Salud

America. In Mexico as a kid when asked where I was from I replied “I’m an American.”  The shopkeeper said, in perfect English, “So am I.”  It had never occurred to me before, Mexico was contained in the continent of North America.  My adolescent brain hadn’t bothered to make a distinction between American & U. S. Citizen.  Most ‘Americans’ never do. It’s a part of our character to grab what seems true and hold on to it, defending it to the death against attacks and sometimes logic and truth.  It’s what makes us strong, and what makes others hate us.  I hear the mantra of ‘family values’ repeated from every corner, much of the time used to sell things.  I hear condemnation of anything unfamiliar or different.  One thing many Christians get right is charity.  The problem of poverty is too big to fix without fundamental structural change in society, but it is being treated by many – some out of devotion to their faith, some out of dedication of humanity.  You see evidence of this on Leopard Street.  Any given hour on any given day you can see people asleep on the benches and sidewalks, and there are always the walking wounded – making their way down the circuit: Salvation Army, Metro Ministries, then to the bus station and back to panhandle.  As I stood next to my truck a man shuffled by me and the smell was overwhelming.  It wasn’t the smell of urine or filth.  It was the smell of desperation.

I gathered with three generations of family this morning.  My Father-In-Law, My Stepson and myself shared the table with fellow taco inspector Kevy the Hat.  We talked politics, we talked food, we talked about women and men, we talked about the past.  Dee, my Father-In-Law, grew up blocks away, and told us about how this restaurant used to be a diner called ‘Bunk’s’ that served up real root beer from a wooden barrel, back before they tore down the Sears and put in it’s place the city hall, years later, to cast a shadow on the overlooked and forlorn transients as they polish the  crumbling sidewalks with cheap shoes and bare feet.  The 1914 County Courthouse sits blocks away, empty for 30 years, again crumbling after a short lived effort to restore it lost steam a few years back.

My wife’s father is a man of respect with whom I carry on discussions on many things we both claim expertise in, if only in each other’s company.  He’d recommended this place – not for the tacos, but for the homemade corn tortillas.  Many years ago my family in a fit of wanderlust, which we had in spades already, and in an effort to prolong our short fall to the rock bottom of destitution sold everything we had, hopped in a camper van and crossed into Mexico where we traveled for months and months.  I remember eating fresh corn tortillas that were hot out of the tortilleria, right there on the sidewalk outside.  I haven’t liked a corn tortilla since, how could another compare? This changed today. These were big and fresh, and thinner than the typical corn tortilla.  It looked like it was pressed, and had no real irregularity of texture but tasted like it was kneaded by the hand of god himself (please forgive me).

The flour tortillas were the same way.  So thin it was as if I were trying to hold the egg and chorizo together with a puff of smoke.  Everything else was good, but hard to focus on in the company of the tortillas.  Carne Guisada – good, Chorizo & Egg – pretty good, Barbacoa – good, Coffee – pretty good once we got it.  The salsa was unremarkable but complemented the tacos.  If there was anything to complain of, it was that the waitress forgot our coffee for 5 minutes – and once reminded showed up quickly with a fresh full pot.  

So don’t rely on conclusions built on the presumptions of familiarity and don’t let your routines protect you from experiencing the world outside your comfort zone. You might not know what you’re missing, and if you’re missing this place you’re missing out on a damned good thing.

From the Hat

Today was a good day to be a Tacoteur.  Ian’s Father-in-Law had suggested Bandas on Leopard and joined us there for tacos.  Once seated, he immediately ordered something not from the menu, barbacoa on a home-made corn tortilla.  I decided to listen to the table-talk and follow suit.  In addition to the barbacoa taco, I ordered chicharrones and eggs a la mexicana on a hand-made flour.

I’d been across the the street at Shaeffer’s Muffler Shop at least twice a year for state inspection stickers and had seen Banda’s many times while I waited.  I’m a bit bummed that I could have gone in there and had a high-quality taco while my car was being inspected.

While we waited for the tacos, I enjoyed a cafe-delicious cup of coffee or three.  I listened to tales of the area from way before I graced the region with my presence.  I could almost see what the place would have looked like back then.  Maybe a bit like it does now, without the guys sleeping on the sidewalk.

The tacos arrived and Wow!.  They were big and the smell of fresh corn tortilla was rushing off my plate.  I took aim at the barbacoa.  The best!.  I’d have more to say, but I think it’s summed up by my words at the time, “This is as close to barbacoa taco perfection as it comes.”  And I stick by those words.  The corn tort was fresh-made and thin.  Thinner than most corn tortillas I’ve seen – Twiggy in the world of tortillas, but packed with corn flavor and robust enough to handle the juicy barbacoa.  Served with cebolla and cilantro on the side it was exceptional.  You’d have to barbecue the head yourself to get better.  I did good to follow the lead of The Man.

Next to the chicharrones and egg a la mexicana.  This was the best in recent memory.  These were no fluffed-up air-brushed chicharrones, they were the real deal.  Their texture was almost gelatinous.  Exactly right.  There were plenty in the taco and they were not overshadowed by the eggs.  The flour tortilla was really good.  Thin and lacking nothing.  It broke on me during the taco, but that was probably because it was stuffed beyond carrying capacity with goodies.  I accented this taco with the excellent fresh red salsa on the table.

In closing, I’d like to say that next time I get a vehicle inspected, I’m not going to be hanging around the Shaeffer’s waiting room, watching the Judge-of-the-day dispense television justice.  I’m heading across the street where the television is playing a panel of five short-skirted women all talking español at the same time.  But they won’t distract me one minute from my taco.

El Palenque Mexican Restaurant

3429 Leopard St

Corpus Christi, TX 78408

(361) 887-9105

Chorizo & Egg: $1.45

Carne Guisada: $1.90

Large Coffee: $.95

The grind of the city can push a man too far.  The litany of insults to a man’s dignity and the slow and steady destructions of his dreams can drive him to a place the innocent would fear.  This is a place that serves up whatever that man wants.  In our part of the world he’s got his options; the border is filled with little towns where you show up with money and leave with a need to see an American doctor, if not a lawyer.  And when he finds himself walking the dark and dirty sidewalks to the South they might lead him to a place where people bet on the very lives of two cocks engaged in a battle to the death – the arena known as EL PALENQUE.

If you’ve been down Leopard you know what to expect. The steady stream of working girls and derelicts wearing a path from the Metro Ministries to the shelter and the bus stop. El Palenque has been around since 1991 and occupies a building that used to be a strip club.  As we sat at our table we were flanked by cops and thugs alike. The attraction of this kind of diversion makes no distinction between right and wrong, between rich and poor.  It is unadulterated lust for blood.

We are no different, Kevin & I, as we lay our money down for the spectacle.  I bet on the favorite to win, a half breed plate with a Carne Guisada taco and a Chorizo & Egg.  Kevin had a hot tip about a fix – the Picadillo taco and his friend Dale, the taco.  My Coffee was gigantic, as were most of the hulking patrons.  There was no red salsa, only a delicious green – as if to say ‘red salsa? we don’t need no stinking red salsa!’ We dared not eat the corn tortillas, as we were told by the merciful waitress they were not homemade as she dispensed salsa into what seemed like 500 tiny cups with speed that would put a machine to shame. She was sharp, that one.  She knew everyone’s name and had their regular orders at their tables almost before they could sit down.  She looked like she’d faced some trouble in her life but was still trim and cheerful, with a proud beauty covering the abuses of time. The banter with the english speaking customers was salty. The only Spanish I heard was from the radio, and almost none of the customers were Mexican.

The Chorizo & Egg was very light on the Chorizo.  The Carne Guisada redeemed the breakfast, with huge chunks of beef and a soupy sauce all resting on thick fresh flour tortillas.

On the way back home Kevin tried to piece together the confusing fragments of memory from the night before:

Yes Ian, the fix was in.  My feathers ruffled upon entering the pit.  Armed only with cockspurs of the trade, a fork, I raged, skwalking in anticipation of the unknown.  I set upon my duel, taco a mano, with the taco known as Dale.

Dale, a long time patron who still frequents the Palenque, ordered a bean, egg, cheese and two slices of bacon so regularly that they named it after him.  As tacos go, it was good.  The beans were the perfect texture, but missing any snap.  The bacon was well done, but not too crispy.  Not the most worthy opponent, but I was happy for the lightweight first round…and it was a good thing, for the next battle surely tested my mettle.

The picadillo at first taste was a bit bland, but with a strategic application of sal, the flavors brightened and I knew I was in a run for my money.  I could see the other patrons glancing askance to see how I would fare in battle.  I’m not sure, but I think I saw Ian covering a bet with the waitress.  Surely he was betting on my success… surely.  The taco was really good.  A mix of ground beef, potatoes, and in this case chunks of bright orange carrots made the hash both tasty and visually appealing.  In the end it didn’t stand a chance either, and its broken body was the proof of my victory.

The tortillas were very good.  I disregarded my custom of one flour and one corn at the recommendation of the owner.  They didn’t serve a hand-made corn tarpaulin.  Too bad, but I won’t fault them as the flour torts were very good.  The salsa was green, and served in a squeeze bottle.  It had a good fresh taste of chili with plenty of heat, very good I would say.  The coffee was served in a cup that was large enough to have sequestered a small gamecock–and it was good.

In the end, I walked out victorious but not unscathed.  It’s likely I will wear the parting shot of salsa from the picadillo on my shirt for the duration of the day.  Salud.

We got away with little more than the shirts on our backs, and worn out stomachs as we made our way home to beg our wives to take us in and forgive us – one more time.