A Hungry Update
Dios mío. It’s been a while.
Dearest readers, lectores, amigos and friends,
We hope this finds you in fine form, despite much of the recent past having been sort of one big bad cabbage simmered in hot garbage milk and served up in a crap-lacquered basket of damp middle fingers. Or something like that. Things have been difficult for everyone – which goes without saying but we’re saying it anyway – and through it all, we at The Hungry Herald have often found ourselves looking to the words of the great Homer Simpson, words that have more than once proven a balm to us in times of trouble past: “Yes! Crisitunity!”
If you find that your existential recipe books are yielding some unfamiliar and exciting dishes these days, please keep cooking and know that you’re beautiful. On our side of things, we’ve been whipping up some new plates of our own and, after a long but constructive hiatus, we’re delighted to announce that the Herald is back! Back on the rack and ready for broil!! Exclamation points!!!
Lest ye thought this was a flash-in-the-pan blog weirdly and inordinately focussed on pumpkins, pickles and under-appreciated soft drinks, think again. There’s much more in store so ready the good cutlery, folks! We’ve tweaked the format a little here and there but rest assured, our fascination with all things food and drink remains our unwavering little lodestar. Hopefully we entertain. Hopefully we inform. Hopefully you enjoy.
Mike & Vee’s Mexcellent Adventure
So yeah, no surprise but things over the past little while got a bit put out of sorts, thrown up on shelves, tossed away in cupboards and swept under the fridge. Things then got reassessed, re-imagined, rearranged, spiced anew and trimmed afresh. Our conclusion about what to do with ourselves in the face of the what-have-you of it all? Get rid of pretty much everything we own and take off to Mexico for an undetermined duration, get all digitally nomadic, pressure-cook our Spanish skills, and fall madly in love with the country while discovering the tesoros culinarios spilling out from virtually every street corner. And that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.
Hola from beautiful Mazatlán, Sinaloa, The Pearl of the Pacific, legendary port town known for its electrified and seemingly endless boardwalk, symphonic sunsets that melt the mind, killer banda music (a full ensemble including French horn and tuba on the beach is a revelation), iconic yellow-label Pacifico beer, and some of the most serious shrimp in the western hemisphere. And needless to say, the lovely list goes on and on.
We’re not-so-fresh off the ferry from La Paz, The Hungry Herald’s headquarters for two months and a true home away from home that had us simply enchanted the entire time. The vibe, the pace, the people, the music, the beaches (El Tecolote, no questions, just go), the food, the drinks, the drinks and the food… We’ll be reporting amply on the delights on offer in both La Paz and Mazatlán in subsequent posts, but first, we’d like to rewind a little and take you to Cabo San Lucas, our bedazzling point of entry on this most Mexcellent adventure.
Super Shuttle & A Taco Tip
Shortly after touching down in San Jose del Cabo on one of the sweetest darn tarmacs we’ve seen so far – see video down below – we got a prearranged ride from one Juan Pablo (Need a ride?), shuttle van maestro extraordinaire. He runs a thriving independent operation driving people between points around Los Cabos (San Jose del Cabo and Cabo San Lucas combined), and he does so for a good price, with the added bonus of a deep familiarity with the area and excellent recommendations he happily shares on the way.
One such recommendation was that we visit a certain neighbourhood taco stand that appears and then disappears within a cherished few hours every morning and that just so happened to be located right across the street from our hotel. There was just one caveat. The woman who operates the stand is grumpy and never smiles. Challenge accepted, we’d see about that.
A Threat To Breakfast
We had decided to kick off our adventure in style and ease and stay at the bright little oasis known as Médano Hotel & Spa. Great amenities, fantastic service, a hopscotch and a tumble away from the beach as well as breakfast included, featuring a lineup of Mexican classics on the menu, continental platitudes be damned. On day one though, before we sat down to our first heaping plate of proper chilaquiles in Mexico, we found ourselves thoroughly distracted by the issue of the mysterious morning taco monger right outside. After some deliberation, we decided to run the risk of a little appetite ruination (we were still getting that complimentary breakfast) and take a gander at what exactly was going on just across the street. Time was of the essence, remember.
Upon seeing the stand on the opposite corner from the hotel, we had a brief, fresh-off-the-plane-delicate-gringo moment of apprehension in which we questioned the wisdom, from a gastrointestinal angle, of going straight for bona fide street food as our very first morning meal in Mexico. It was 9:30 AM, and under normal circumstances, curbside tacos would be the very last thing on the brain, but here we were. We decided to have faith. Happy we did.
Juan Pablo had told us that we had to try the tacos de lengua (tongue) and that the place was popular with locals, including construction workers, taxi drivers and police officers. Also, once the taco lady ran out of wares – which happened fast – that was it, game over, buddy. To any person remotely dedicated to discovering the culinary wonders of the street that a city has to offer, these are all words of an irresistibly musical strain. We crossed the road.
The Taco Lady Is In
The stand was composed of a stainless steel shelved counter plus plastic side table laden with condiments and was set up in front of the entrance to a convenience store, adjacent to a corner laundromat. The front of it was draped with defensive plastic wrap in a frantic, homemade Covidian style, with an expletive-peppered paper sign warning customers that they better keep their distance and wear their F&%$#@G masks while there. Judging by the other customers, this seemed to be a warning only partially heeded, but the tone of the message definitely lent an extra tension to the proceedings. Right beside this sign was another one announcing recent price changes that read more like a rant than a notice. Again, unnerving. For courtesy seating, a small wooden bench next to a decommissioned, unplugged lotto machine that time forgot did the job.
A cluster of visibly happy customers was gathered around the stand, which, at first glance, seemed to have been left unattended. At second glance, we were struck by a pair of jean-clad legs visible from underneath (see photo above), and we understood that the taco lady was indeed at her post, standing at the exact same height as the stand. It was almost as if she were one with the thing. I ventured a sneak peek around the side and confirmed not only that she was present but, thanks to her mask being affixed beard-style below the mouth, that she was not smiling. She was not smiling at all. And when she saw me, I think she smiled even less.
A rush of Soup Nazi concern came over me as I suddenly realized how ill-prepared I was for the ordering process. Would I be denied service for tripping over some faux-pas wire I wasn’t aware of? Was there a special way to hand over the pesos come payment time only known to the initiated? Had she already decided she hated me and mapped out my doom in an instant? Would I have to “COME BACK, ONE YEAR!!”???
No Zebra, No Tongue
As I struggled with this sudden pelting of new apprehensions, the taco lady just continued serving her customers, simply unmoved by my presence, nothing more. A little relieved, I got in line while Vee held a spot for us on the bench. As I waited, I overheard our host gruffly telling a customer what she had on offer. I didn’t catch everything, but I managed to make out chicharrón, barbacoa, deshebrada and something about puerco. No tongue though… Also, did she say zebra?
My Spanish isn’t bad, but I had never heard the word deshebrada before, meaning frayed or in this case, pulled meat – probably pork – and what I heard instead was “de cebra”, meaning “of zebra”. Nah, can’t be… But could it?
A quick yet focused consultation with Google Translate & Friends soon put to rest any wild speculations that somehow this woman was cramming definitely illegal African game meats between tortillas and being perfectly open about it on the sidewalk. Having learned a new word, I returned to matters far more pressing and real.
It was my turn, and the taco lady eyed me with detachment mixed with maybe a sprinkle of disdain. I inquired about the tongue. “Buenos días señora, ¿hay lengua hoy?” There was a tiny twinkle in her eye at this, something hinting at warmth. There was none left, she flatly confirmed, yet a flash of a glance suggested she might have been reluctantly impressed that I had asked. I had read somewhere that tongue tacos are one of the tell-tale signs of authenticity in a taquería, and perhaps I had hit a sweet nerve somewhere deep under her tough skin. Maybe it was a question she had not heard before coming from a creature so gringo. Whatever the case, the stuff was obviously popular as she was already plumb out, and it wasn’t even 10 o’clock. I ordered a chicharron rojo and some zebra instead.
Taco Level Up
There was a choice of corn or wheat flour tortillas. Although we do enjoy a good wheat one – especially when diaphanously thin, with that slightly sticky texture on the tooth that gets you chewing for more – I decided to go for corn. Tortilla type confirmed, the chef then began assembling, diving into a series of Tupperware containers to bring forth the homemade delights with which she would build our tacos.
This wasn’t your ordinary stand equipped with a grill and such; cooking had been done beforehand, slowly and lovingly as we would soon find out. Once completed, she handed the tacos over and indicated the variety of fresh condiments and sauces available. I thanked her, paid the bill and left a small propina on the top of the stand – there was no tip jar put out for the purpose, but I decided to risk it, bracing for I knew not what. With a glance up and a “gracias”, she cracked something distantly akin to a smile and I considered myself most fortunate, taking what I could get. Let the record state, it would be the first in a series of growing smiles, each one bigger than the last.
Seated on the wooden bench beside the lotto machine, we breathed in the fresh morning air mingled with the exhaust from cars, buses and pickup trucks rumbling by, and dug in. We’ve had some great tacos back home, truth be told, but this was altogether un otro nivel.
On the inside of things, the taco fillings were unlike any we’d had before. The meats were mega-braised, simmered for untold hours, maybe even days, slowly brought to the very brink of tenderness and packing so much flavour as to be almost insulting. The zebra – I mean pulled pork – was delicious, juicy and felt pulled as it should be pulled: patiently, delicately and with conviction. The chicharron rojo was a chile-based, fried pork belly-and-skin bonanza dripping with rich fatty flavour. For both tacos, fresh chopped onions and cilantro plus a touch of homemade hot sauce and a squeeze of lime came in to zing things up.
On the outside of things, there was perfection. The corn tortilla was nice and nixtamalized (our word of the day, check this out), with that ancient, toasted flavour conjuring images of abuelas making them from scratch and slapping them down on traditional comals. All told, these were tacos that made you meditate on tacos. And we realized right there and then how very little we knew.
That morning, in front of a laundromat on a street corner that was already sizzling under the early Baja sun, we decided to meditate much more on the taco, not to mention everything else coming out of the Mexican kitchen, market, food truck, street stand, pantry and Tupperware container. In the spirit of said meditation, we invite you to join us here for a closer look at the tacoscape and its marvellous tacography.
Tongue-tied Regulars
We went to the taco lady’s stand three days in a row, slightly ruining our complimentary breakfast appetite every time. On each visit, we asked about the tongue, and on each visit, no dice, none left. How early did we have to get up, by God? Who were all these people eating tongue at the crack of dawn? Although the big prize remained out of reach, the tacos we did have were consistently amazing, and the master taquera seemed to be warming up to us little by little, but it was hard to tell.
On the second day, I asked her what she recommended. Instead of answering me, she just pointed to a lady standing beside her and bluntly told me to ask her instead. The rarely seen menu-suggestion-buck-pass. As a waiter over the past twenty-some-odd years, it had never occurred to me to try that, nor would I have had the cojones to do so. The other lady seemed amused by this and happily obliged. I gratefully went with her recommendation and placed my order, at which point our host then said something super fast that elicited a sudden burst of laughter from everyone around the stand. I smiled, wondering if I had just been royally dissed, noting to self how much more work I needed to do on my real-world comprehension skills. I refrained from asking her to repeat, and I still wonder what it was she said, but whatever it was, she chuckled when she said it. And I think I may have even seen a cheery flash of the teeth in the process. Glad I could be of service, I think.
Treasure On The House
On day three, another tongueless morning under the scorching sun, the taco lady seemed somewhat tickled that we were there once again. A couple of strange stray gringos who kept showing up and asking for organ meats; it was understandably amusing. I told her she made the best tacos we’ve ever had and that it was a great way to start the day, or something along those lines, and I was rewarded with another, wider shade of smile. It was like winning at Bingo every time.
Back on our little bench, we were once again blown away, this time by a chicharron verde taco. Another bonanza of fried pork skin and belly, but now in a sumptuous and tangy tomatillo sauce, once again brightened with fresh onions, coriander, lime and hot sauce (if it ain’t broke…). As we were hunched over the messy deliciousness in the throes of enjoyment, a shadow was suddenly cast over us. A five-foot-tall, stalky, allegedly grumpy shadow. We looked up.
I sincerely regret that I never asked for her name, but there she was, the now legendary taco lady, actually removed from her post and standing beside us on the sidewalk. Her arm was extended, and in her hand she proudly held something aloft before my face like some kind of treasure. And she was smiling. Unequivocally, like a fresh sunbeam added to the street, she smiled, handing me a taco that may as well have been the Hope Diamond. I humbly accepted, looked down between the delicate tortilla folds, whimpered a little, and then thanked her profusely.
I don’t know why and I didn’t ask, but in my hand was the taco we had been hunting for all along, on the house. There was a secret stash back there, and she had decided to open a hidden compartment in her Tupperware trove and give us access. There was just enough for a single precious taco to share, the magical stewed meat tender beyond belief. This was the ultimate gift with purchase, and we were truly honoured. And yes, it was superb.
That’s right, folks. As I sat on that fateful bench with my wife on the sun-pounded corner of Avenida del Pescador and Camino Real on a random weekday morning in Cabo San Lucas, the grumpy taco lady publicly did perhaps the very least grumpy thing in the world:
She slipped me some tongue.
We hope you enjoyed this post, and please, if you’re in Cabo San Lucas, make a beeline straight for this stand. You will not regret it. Again, it’s on the corner of Avenida del Pescador and Camino Real, where the laundromat and convenience store are, across from the Médano Hotel. Open daily, roughly between 9 and 11 AM, then vanishes without a trace. No name, no website, definitely no frills, just pure street food – maybe not served with a smile, but it’s a possibility. Enjoy. Oh, and grab a Coke from the store to wash it all down. Breakfast of campeones.
