I have changed my relationship to the concept of the taco. If that sounds like a silly and…read morepretentious thing to say, I am a silly and pretentious dude. Indulge me.
In 2016, my country had an election, during which one of the 53 Latino supporters of Donald Trump--a gentleman who in his birth country of Mexico would be referred to as a "pendejo"--got on TV to say "My culture is a very dominant culture. If you don't do something about it, you're going to have taco trucks on every corner."
As a result of his asinine comment, tacos became political. If you supported Hillary Clinton, as I did, you were expected to love tacos. And Trump supporters were expected to fear an invasion from the south, an invasion characterized by a fearsome and terrible desire to offer delicious grilled meats on tortillas at street corners.
This made me uneasy. My affection for Mexico was already deep, due to previous visits. What I knew was that Mexican gastronomy was one of the supreme gastronomies of the world: in my view, better than French. Tacos were a part of it, sure: but where in this political debate was atole de pinole? Mole? Enchiladas de flor de calabaza?
Suddenly, liberal Americans LOVED tacos, and proclaimed that love everywhere as a way to virtue signal their opposition to racist Trump supporters. This kind of liberal racism--exaggeratedly loving one aspect of a culture in such a way that you give yourself permission to REDUCE that culture to that element--would later be brilliantly lampooned in Jordan Peele's film "Get Out." Ah yes, we liberal Americans love tacos and therefore Mexico, but how much do we really know about Mexico, or are we using the taco as a cudgel with which to beat our enemy, the taco-fearing, Latino-fearing, immigrant-fearing Trump supporter?
So, I edged away from the taco: as concept, as signifier, as food. Because of Trump's inexplicable, hateful victory, a victory which led me to believe that my country fell in 2016 as surely as the Roman Empire fell in 476, I moved to Mexico, embracing nearly every aspect of Mexico...except, notably, the taco. I devoured sopes, enchiladas, mole, huaraches, quesadillas, alambres, gringas, gorditas, tlacoyos, and more, only adding to the stomach I had embarrassingly added to myself.
But the taco, I mostly avoided. Until tonight.
John, a friend from LA, insisted on tacos in my neighborhood. I recalled a place I had frequently passed since moving here in July 2021. I had never been to the place, called Tacos El Güero.
At nearly 10 p.m., John and I found one of 3 or 4 "lines." We were not sure it was the right one, but we could observe the frenetic activity at the grill station: men with face masks and no patience, working faster than the eye could catch, flinging their giant knives at sizzling hunks of meat. Someone wanted one with suadero, not a campechano as the cook had misheard? No problem, the incorrect meat was rapidly deposited in the correct place, with the correct meat taking its place. The level of activity mesmerized: these men did not want one customer to wait 0.25 seconds longer than absolutely necessary.
Finally, it was our turn. In just slightly longer than it took me to say "suadero con queso," the cook had magically made melted cheese and drool-inducing meat appear out of nowhere. He expertly flung them onto a tiny tortilla. "Con todo?" He asked. Of course. Wherever you are in the world, whatever food you are trying, always ask for it with everything. And in less time than I could figure out how he'd grabbed them, he suddenly had a fist full of cilantro, onion, and who knows what else. He flung them at the plate, handed them to us along with John's tacos al pastor, and it was time. Well, first it was time to add salsa, but then: IT WAS TIME.
When I was eating those two tacos de suadero con queso, the rest of the universe did not exist. Bliss reigned. It would not have surprised me to see sidewalk cones discuss Greek philosophy, or flying chickens declaim French poetry, or exactly 3 citizens of every nation and religion walk by hand in hand, nodding sagely as they gave each other lovely and sincere compliments. The dissonances in Schoenberg's music all resolved themselves. Continents agreed to stop colliding and glide together.
That is how good are the tacos de suadero con queso at Tacos El Güero.
And more: they have inspired me to make peace with the concept of the taco. American liberals who idealize it, who profess their love for it, American conservatives who fear it or begrudgingly eat or make it (in a way that gives credence to those who constantly blather about the evils of cultural appropriation)...none of them can truly claim the taco. At the end of the day, it is just a taco, made incredibly quickly but with impeccable love and care by artisans like those very busy and serious men who work at Tacos El Güero.
I will return.
