Right across the street from Xochimilco there’s the wood-paneled Tacos Matamoros, which looks and sounds more like a Benihana-style eatery than a place that slings al pastor and lengua. The facade put me off a bit, but I had read some good things so I decided to sneak a few tacos before I took the longish train ride back to Greenpoint.

I opened the door and stood blinking for a second, letting my eyes adjust. The whole place was decked out like an upscale cafeteria, or at least it reminded me of the break room at a law firm I used to work at. Wood paneling, wide tile floors, low lights, soft chatter. The distance from the door to the counter was long. I grabbed a menu. I didn’t know where to stand really so I kind of paced back and forth. Carnitas and al pastor, please. I looked around the room. To go.

Something inside me always feels a little guilty when I get food to go, so I usually sit to one side of the restaurant playing with my phone, trying to look busy. I must of cracked at Matamoros because when the women behind the counter handed over my food in a brown paper bag, I sat down at the nearest table, ripped the bag open and dug right into the tacos. I looked up, half expecting the women to be shaking her head in disappointment (”Why did you lie to me?”), but no one cared.

The al pastor was really good. Tender, well seasoned. The savory, almost burnt flavor popped against the bright, clear taste of the salsa verde. The tortilla was warm and lightly coated in oil. I got crunch from the onions and that fresh, almost soapy taste from the generous heap of cilantro. I happily wolfed it down, chomping on a halved radish as a palette cleanser.

The carnitas did not fair so well. The meat wasn’t fried or even crispy. It had a bland taste, and a mushy mouth feel. It recalled lunch at the retirement community with my grandmother. I didn’t like it, but I ate it anyway, because it was a taco and I was holding it.

So I get the feeling that together, Xochimilco and Matamoros are kind of like the McDonald’s and Burger King of Sunset Park. Not in the sense that they’re bad, but just that they’re kind of obvious and don’t necessarily constitute a close study of the area’s taco prowess. But I figured it was a good place to start and I’m not disappointed. I’m certainly looking forward to going back, and maybe getting off 5th Ave.

**

Tacos Matamoros
45-08 5th Ave.
Sunset Park, Brooklyn, NYC

So I’ve been getting a lot of lip from you people about my neglect of Sunset Park. I guess that’s good. I guess it’s why I wanted to write about tacos in the first place. But the zeal some NYC taco hunters reserved for 5th Ave. between 39th and 56th inflated my expectations so much that I thought I was going to walk off the Subway, fall in a pile of pillowy tortillas and immediately be smothered in al pastor. Not so. The salsa verde does not flow through the streets of Sunset Park, but the tacos were there, and I was hungry.

I walked the first nine blocks looking for the old standbys. Tacos Xochimilco and Matamoras. Nevermind that these were the most elaborately titled taquerias I had ever heard of, the point was I had heard of them, and that was saying something in a city where people still buy those preformed taco shells at the grocery store.

Sunset Park is charming. The park itself goes uphill to the East, and to the West you can see down the side streets all the way to river. It had just rained, or was just about to rain, so it was clear and bright and muggy. I saw Tacos Xochimilco at the corner of 45th St. and 5th Ave. so I crossed the street and went inside.

Inside it was cool, dim and quiet. Ceiling fans whirred overhead. I ordered two tacos, al pastor and carne asada, in Spanish and cracked open a Mexican Coke. I was sweating a little from the walk and the Coke tasted amazing. All the light came in from the big windows facing the street. I watched people go by and waited.

The food came. I got so excited that I forgot to take pictures. I dug right into the al pastor. The flavor was good, but a little salty. It was certainly greasy, fatty and delicious, but there was something over-seasoned about it. The natural saltiness of the pork clashed with whatever else had gone into the meat. The tang of the salsa verde didn’t help as much as it should have. I’m overstating here. I ate the thing right up, and I wasn’t unhappy about it, but I was very aware of what was on the meat, as opposed to the meat itself. The pork just got lost, and I missed it. I wanted my pig back.

With bravery and trepidation, I picked up the Carne Asada and bit in. The flavor was surprisingly good and the meat was actually juicy(!). Was that juicy beef and char I just tasted? I think it was. I took another bite. Each little meaty morsel actually had flavor and the protein was balanced perfectly with the generous cilantro, onion, and salsa mix. They even served their tacos on the tiny 3 inch tortillas that I like. (Although you have to ask for pequeno.)

There was a hint of the saltiness I had tasted with the pork, but who are we kidding? You can’t over-salt beef. It’s beef. Dump salt on there like there’s no tomorrow. Actually, my favorite carne asadas are more buttery than salty but no matter, I was happy. The salsa verde that came with the tacos wasn’t particularly distinguished but fresh enough and lively.

Jesus, I just re-read this post and I sound just like my mother, complaining about salt at restaurants. I love my mom, and she’s an incredible cook, but she’ll honestly complain for a week if her pasta has too much salt. What the fuck, I’m a little drunk…mom, this post is for you.

***

Tacos Xochimilco
45-01 5th Ave.
Sunset Park, Brooklyn, NYC

When I started this, I figured finding a good fish taco in Manhattan would be expensive and annoying. Expensive because I had seen fish tacos on the menu at fairly nice restaurants, and annoying because I knew they would insist on dressing it up in all kinds of foodie bullshit. Worse, I feared the dreaded grilled fish taco, I perversion of the Baja form that I hold so dear.

First, a geography lesson. Baja California is not in the United States. In fact, Baja California is the narrow strip of land that juts out south of San Diego, and separates the Gulf of California from the rest of the Pacific Ocean. Like many regions of Mexico, it has all its own bullshit. Most importantly, they make a fish taco down there that absolutely kills it. Going down there, surfing, and eating lobster and fish tacos is basically the best thing a person can do in the world.

I didn’t have high hopes for Pinche Taqueria. Mostly because it’s in fucking Nolita, of all places. But I was accompanied by the lovely Candice of Soho Lunch, so I didn’t really care so much. The interior was nice, but a little too clean, gringo-like. They would have passed a health inspection, never a good sign. We went to order and asked the guy behind the register if the fish tacos were fried or grilled. He looked at me like I was crazy for a second and said, “Fried, obviously, in a beer batter we make here ourselves. They’re Baja style.” I was dumbstruck. Wait, what? He introduced himself as Jeff and told us that he had moved the entire place from Tijuana, where he has owned a taco shop for years. He had a house in San Diego. He travelled to Puerto Nuevo all the time. All the kitchen equipment came from Baja, all the meats, all the spices, everything. My jaw was literally on the floor. I wanted to kiss him on the mouth.

Restraining myself from jumping over the counter and gnawing on whatever I could find, I played it cool, ordered an al pastor, a fish and a Pacifico and sat down with Candice. Candice is from Houston but has been living in the city for seven years. She runs a jewelry company. Her blog is really funny in kind of a twisted way, and it makes me feel embarrassed for taking myself so seriously. Really though, you don’t want to see me with my shirt half off.

The tacos arrived. I ate the al pastor first. It was filled with great juicy morsels of meat dripping grease. The saucing was nice, cool, refreshing…just a touch of guacamole. Onions and fresh cilantro were excellent. I came up for air gasping, red pork all over my face and hands. Candice looked at me sideways, so much for making a good first impression.

I eyed the fish taco, mentally preparing myself for the disappointment when it inevitably didn’t meet my exacting standards. I picked it up and bit in. Wow, not half fucking bad. Delicious fried exterior and perfectly cooked, flaky white mahi mahi on the inside. Sauce was a little cabbage, cream and guacamole, perfect. I added some salsa. I devoured the thing, then grabbed my beer and closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was in Baja. Nope, still downtown NYC. Jeff came over and we chatted for a little about why there are so few good tacos downtown. I told him he was doing a public service.

Nice guy, nice spot, cold beer, cute girl and a really good fish taco. What else could you ask for?

****

Pinche Taqueria (which means Fucking Taco Place, or Goddamn Taco Place)
227 Mott St.
Manhattan, Nolita, NYC

First of all, let me say how wonderful the response to Lost Taco has been and how much I appreciate all the comments and the recommendations. It’s deeply satisfying to hear from so many passionate taco-savvy readers. For those of you who linked me on your blogs and message boards, I’m very grateful and when I can I’ll point people in your direction. Last Friday, we got nods from Serious Eats, Thrillist and Chow, among others. I can now categorically say that anyone who says there is no taco scene in NYC is flat-out wrong.

On to more important matters. I received many recommendations, and I’m looking forward to following up on all of them, but out of sheer laziness (and a clamoring for more Manhattan spots) I decided to try Zaragoza Mexican Deli and Grocery in the East Village first. I was particularly keen on trying the veal taco, which sounded decadent and delicious.

Part of me hated to find a good taco in the East Village. It’s already so spoiled with incredible food. Bennat lives on 12th St. and he’s always bragging about how many great restaurants are on his block. I have to walk fifteen minutes minimum from my apartment to find food that isn’t being served off a steam table, so when I realized this place was like a block away from his house, it kind of pissed me off. But I liked what I saw from the outside (windows cluttered with press clippings and Christmas lights) and I brightened immediately when I walked in and saw rows of my favorite store-bought salsa, El Yucateco.

I ordered two tacos, goat and veal, grabbed a Mexican Coke and sat down to watch the soccer game that was on Univision. I watched the man behind the register prepare my tacos. He put the meat on the small tortillas and asked me if I wanted salsa. Absolutely, I do. He gave me cucumbers and a pickled jalapeno. He put the plate down on the counter. It looked wonderful. The rich browns of the meat and the bright salsa. I started to salivate just looking at the pickled jalapeno. (Even writing about it now, I’m experiencing a physiological response.)

The goat taco was overflowing with meat, so I stabbed a few pieces with a fork and put them in my mouth. Oh, what a flavor…the indescribable taste of the shank stewed for hours and hours until it’s buttery and tender. The stray bits of salsa and onion provided texture, heat and tang. I swooned. I picked up the taco and devoured it.

Let’s not kid ourselves, this is a serious taco by ANY standard, not just a lowered NYC bar. It had that pop, that quality that seems to typify all great food, that moment when you find yourself struck dumb. The flavors are in some ways impossible to separate, and why would you want to? They’re balanced, working together. This is a great taco, the first really great taco I’ve had in NYC.

I snatched up the veal and ate half of it in one bite. The meat didn’t taste as good to me. The richness was overpowering, too fatty, too creamy. I suppose it’s a matter of taste though, and the taco on the whole was good. I also thought the salsa roja on the goat really outshone the salsa verde, but that also could of been because of the meat. Next time I’m going to get everything in every possible permutation, bring like a pup tent and a sleeping bag so I can take a nap afterwards.

I ate the pickled jalapeno for dessert, reveling in the crunch, and the pain it left behind. I washed it down with Coke. Then I went back and ordered another goat taco. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t help myself.

****

Zaragoza Mexican Deli and Grocery
215 Avenue A
East Village, Manhattan, NYC

My buddy Bennat first tipped me to this spot a year ago when I came to visit. A lifetime New Yorker, he spent a few (painful) years out west with me in San Diego so I trust his taco instincts. I tried it last year and was underwhelmed but since I was in the neighborhood I thought I’d give it another shot.

Roommate Oscar was nice enough to join me (”Will you buy me tacos? Is it a business expense?”). We met up at 1st Ave. and 3rd St. He took about fifteen minutes locking up his bike (”It belongs to my mother…”). Then he took a seat by the window so he could watch his bike. In fact, he spent the remainder of the meal craning his neck to make sure it wasn’t getting ripped off. I can’t imagine that the convenience of being able to ride a bike could ever make up for the ulcer it’s going to give him.

I ordered some tacos. Puebla has a nice feel to it: sort of a family run kitchen cum dining room. It was about 6:30 and they were doing a brisk business. Looking around, it seemed like the burritos and the tortas were the house specialities, or at least that’s what everybody was eating. This torta nonsense is becoming a disturbing trend. I might have to bite the bullet one day and order one.

The tacos took kind of a long time, but they were swamped and I had Oscar to regale me with his Oscar tales. When they finally did come I was surprised to see that they were rolled (see above) almost like taquitos and even came with their own individual wrappers. Now, I see myself as something of a purist, but maybe I can get behind these sensible little bundles. As long as the meat to tortilla ratio isn’t fucked, I’m willing to tolerate it.

But how the hell were they? Well, the pork taco was actually pretty good. The meat was a tad on the dry side but the flavor was rich, fatty, pretty much everything you want from the noble beast. The onions and cilantro were fresh and Oscar commented on the crunch. I agreed. The onion flavor in particular stood out, holding up well against the buttery pork. There was a little bit of salsa in the taco (none on the table though), seemed like a mild salsa verde, but I think it could have been stronger. The most disappointing part of the taco was actually the tortilla, which tasted straight out of the package and put a damper on the other ingredients. Maybe I was getting too much tortilla in my mouth because of the way the taco was shaped. Maybe they were just a little stale. Maybe the rolled taco is untenable as an alternative to taco “classic.” Lines are being drawn. Sides will be taken.

The steak was fine. I had a bite. Oscar seemed to enjoy it. But let’s be honest, kid will eat anything.

Definitely going to go back for the chicken mole taco, and you can’t beat this place for convenience. And who knows? I may even get crazy with a torta. Anything could happen.

***

Puebla Mexican Food
47 1st Ave. (btwn 3rd and 4th)
East Village, Manhattan, NYC

Finding a good taco truck, one that you trust, isn’t unlike being in a relationship. There’s the discovery, the passion, the long summer nights wiled away in loving embrace, and of course, inevitably, the moment when they take off the emergency brake and drive away, leaving nary a trace. I have loved and lost, readers. I have, but I am not a cynic. I seek out love still.

So it was with this quixotic spirit that I approached Tia Julia, a taco truck at 91st and Roosevelt, in Jackson Heights, Queens. The lunch rush was pretty much over, but there were a few stragglers munching on tacos and sipping horchata. The horchata looked cold and delicious. My hopes picked up, love radar cautiously humming to life.

I ordered a pollo con papas (chicken with potatoes) taco from the man in the window. A woman was preparing the food off to his right. I couldn’t see where the horchata was coming from (I didn’t wanna get stuck with some store bought swill) but I took a chance and ordered it anyway.

There wasn’t really anywhere to sit so I stood and waited for my food. After a moment, the man produced a heaping taco of beef and potatoes. It wasn’t what I ordered but I accepted it gratefully anyway. He followed that with a cold glass of horchata. I grabbed it with my free hand. The taco came naked. He indicated the salsa and the pico de gallo on the metal counter in front of me. The pico de gallo looked good. So did the salsa verde. I took my creation and sat down on the sidewalk.

The horchata was good, thankfully, although not transcendent. The taco, unfortunately, left me wanting.

The meat was undistinguished, just your average run of the mill ‘bistec’ which I’m starting to realize means whatever the truck owners can get for cheap. Sometimes when I order bistec it’s ground beef. Sometimes it’s thin, hard, chewy pieces. Sometimes it’s big, moist, flavorless hunks. I have really no idea what bistec means other than to say it isn’t carne asada. See rant here.

The potatoes were interesting (there were also some grilled onions mixed in just for the hell of it) and the pico de gallo was deliciously tangy with just a little kick. They also had pickled jalapenos in a jar which were free for the taking. It took me a while to work up the courage to eat these back home in LA, but once I did I was rewarded with a really incredible flavor. Cut them into strips and put them in a burrito. Put them in your pockets and never go hungry.

The thing that struck me most about this drag in Jackson Heights was that the Mexican flavors seemed to be blending with the other Latin American traditions. The two places I tried that espoused their Mexican-ness (Tia Julia and HNS Rodriguez) were also serving the quac salsa verde that was compulsory at Tacolandia and Tacos Quicho’s. It’ll be exciting to see what happens when these flavors blend more completely. Maybe it’s possible that Jackson Heights could have its own brand of taco altogether.

My passion for the taco truck may have not been realized, but I was still satisfied. The experience of food this way is hectic. The 7 train rumbles overhead. The streets are crowded with people and dotted with men and woman handing out flyers. Tacos are fast-paced food though, so this setting suits them. The taco truck itself, the fact that it can pick up and drive off at any moment, seems to suit the taco as well.

**

Tia Julia
Truck at 91st and Roosevelt Ave.
Jackson Heights, Queens, NYC

I think it was the blatant Mexican-ism that drew me here. Or rather, I thought there was an outside chance that had Northern Mexican style carne asada. Now, just so we keep our terminology straight: carne asada is simply grilled beef. But in the experience I’ve had with Mexican cooking in the Southwest US and Northern Mexico, carne asada tends to be something very specific.

Carne asada (in this idiom) is marinated skirt steak, or thinly cut flank steak. The marinade varies but is usually some mixture of lime juice, salt, pepper, white onion, chili, beer and cilantro. I realize this leaves a lot of room for interpretation. The carne asada at Yuca’s, for instance, is completely different than the same cut at El Parian. (Although, and this is a big although for those of you out there who will accuse me of being Northern Mexico biased, they are remarkably similar considering Yuca’s is Yucatan style food.) These differences can be exciting and delightful. So you ask, if carne asada can vary so widely, how can you say with any certainty what carne asada is, or isn’t? You just can.

The biggest tip-off is the cut of meat. Skirt steak is preferable because it is thin (high surface area to total mass ratio) and soaks up the marinade well. Flank steak is often used, but it’s a slippery slope. In my opinion, the thicker the cut, the more it starts to taste like just grilled steak, as opposed to carne asada. Rick Bayless, celebrity chef and Mexican aficionado, says in his cookbook Mexican Everyday that you can use pretty much use whatever cut of steak you like. I guess this is probably true, but the steak must be cut thin.

The thin steaks are placed on the grill and cook very quickly. Ideally, the grilling chars the outside of the steak and leaves the inside slightly pink. On the other hand, I’ve had delicious carne asada that was cooked all the way through. When the steak comes off, it is sliced against the grain into thin strips if it’s going into tacos, or simply garnished with salad, a pickled and grilled jalapeno, beans and rice or whatever. Surely, one of the most thrilling moments in eating is getting an entire skirt steak set in front of you. I’ll be in LA in a couple weeks. Pictures will be taken.

Unfortunately, the tacos at HNS Rodriguez did not hold up to these standards.

I’m not really sure what kind of beef was inside this bad boy, but it tasted like brisket (?). Or at least, it had that moist, yielding quality. There was some char but it seemed like re-char to me, sort of like you get on a fast food hamburger. The flavor wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t reminiscent of the spicy, tangy meat I’m familiar with. Ahh, the search goes on.

The salsa on the other hand was exceptional. You can see it in the photo. It’s that syrupy, deep red stuff drizzled on the taco. It was kind of cross between your average salsa roja and barbecue sauce. There was heat, and smoke, and tang from the vinegar. I loved it. I want to put it on everything I eat from now on.

So maybe try a different meat here? Maybe just get chips and lather them in the delicious red sauce? Either way, let the carne asada furor begin.

**

Tacos HNS Rodriguez
89-04 Roosevelt Ave.
Franklin Heights, Queens, NYC

Is it wrong that my heart starts to pound when I see a little taco cart surrounded by ravenous locals? Is this unnatural? Shifting my weight nervously from foot to foot as I stood in front of Tacos Quicho’s I found myself puzzled by these questions. What was it about this cart? There were like four mother’s with kids in strollers and several men all jostling for position. There was one woman inside cooking all the food and taking care of the transactions. She wore a plastic glove on her food handling left hand and kept her right hand bare for handling money and paper plates. I saw several delicious looking tacos served up before I was able to belly up to the window. I ordered a single carnitas taco because it was first on the list of specialties.

She registered my order, but immediately went back to work. She plucked some fried pork from a covered pan and tossed it on the grill where it shared a small sizzling space with some steak and al pastor. The flavors were blending, coming together and changing. Meanwhile, she turned tortillas on the outer edge of the grill, where it must have been cooler. Finally, she garnished my carnitas taco with cilantro and onion, splashed on the mysterious quac salsa verde, and handed it over.

I got so excited by how it looked on the plate that I walked away, completely forgetting to pay. Half a block (and a taco) later, I realized my error and went back to fork over the two dollars. And the taco? Well…

It was damn good. The fried pork had been expertly spiced. It was crispy on the outside and moist on the inside, a difficult trick and really what separates the men from the boys as far as carnitas goes. The salsa was delicious as well. Tangy, creamy, with just the right balance of heat and flavor. The great thing about carnitas is that there is all this surface area to pick up salsa, so even the middle bite (sometimes dry or flavorless on a carne asada taco) is as delicious as the first. I stumbled down Roosevelt happily inhaling my taco, glad that when I looked back over my shoulder Tacos Guicho’s was still there, and still drawing a crowd.

***

Tacos Guicho’s
84th St. and Roosevelt Blvd. (El Carrito)
Jackson Heights, Queens

Fresh off the 7 train, I spotted a sign that read “Tacolandia” and I just couldn’t help myself. Maybe it’s my Southern Californian upbringing, but when a place as any kind of “land” appendage (in English or otherwise) I’m mysteriously drawn to it, sure that it can’t be all bad.

Tacolandia was no exception. Located on the corner of a strip mall, it’s a small kitchen space with an adjoining dining room. At 2:30 the place was about half full. There were teenagers picking out songs on the jukebox, the music going so loud I could barely hear the waitress over the din. I ordered the steak, and she went to work, throwing a fresh batch of beef on the grill and chopping it and turning it with the metal spatula.

Well, this won’t be so bad, I thought. At least the meat will be hot. The condiments appeared to be in order. She turned to ask me if I would like grilled onions mixed in with the grilled steak. No, I would not.

I sat down and waited for my taco to arrive.  The street outside was crowded with people coming and going from the big 74th St. station.  The area itself is interesting…reminiscent of Westlake near MacArthur Park in LA, except no one asked me if I wanted to buy a fake I.D.  I guess kids in New York go somewhere else, or maybe they don’t need fake I.D.s  I came here once when I was seventeen and didn’t get carded the whole trip.  I wasn’t fooling anyone though.  I’m twenty-four now and I look like I’m twenty.  Back then, I must have looked twelve.

The taco came, already doused in a kind of quacamole salsa verde.  I think this is an Ecuadorian thing but I’m not entirely sure.  The ratio of meat to cilantro/onion mix was good, and the tortilla was still steaming when she plopped it down in front of me.  The taste was O.K.  I’m not gonna knock the condiments because those were fine, but the meat was really more of a cecina (as opposed to bistec or carne asada) and was salted liberally.  Too much in my opinion.  The saltiness of the meat kind of overpowered even the good, creamy flavor of the salsa verde.  Don’t get me wrong, this was a tasty snack, but probably not worth a schlep all the way out from Manhattan or Brooklyn.  

Still, other meats need to be investigated.  The quality of the tortilla was excellent, and paired with the right protein, could pop in a serious way.

**

Tacolandia
704 D Roosevelt Blvd. (at 77th St.)
Jackson Heights, Queens

This place is right across the street from Maria Hernandez Park, which from what I can tell is in a hispanic-dominated part of Bushwick. In fact, it reminded me a lot of Echo Park. It’s amazing how little you have to walk to get out of hipster town. I’m literally five blocks from the subway and suddenly there is a conspicuous lack of coffee shops and tiny restaurants serving “creative” American food.

Anyway, this place kind of surprised me, considering I stumbled into it completely ignorant. I had no idea what to expect, and in LA, that pretty much meant you were either going to be blown away or get food poisoning. Or both. A friend of mine discovered the hard way that they aren’t mutually exclusive. But that’s a different story for a different time, as my friend Liz would say.

The restaurant was really dim, and completely empty, not really what you hope for when you pick a place from down the street. The woman behind the counter took my order (one taco al pastor). Just one? she asked. Yeah, I said, just one. I want to know what I’m getting into.

It’s really a lovely spot there right on the corner of the park. From where I was sitting, I could see teenagers playing basketball, and kids coming out of P.S. 123, which is so big and old looking that it doesn’t look right when little kids come pouring out.

The taco came and I stopped for a moment to snap some pictures. Piping hot tortillas, good. Shaved al pastor, good. Little bits of pineapple, bonus. Onion and cilantro mix looked very solid as well. I squeezed some lime on top and bit in. Not half bad, I have to admit. Not fucking bad at all.

First, the good stuff: The meat was moist and tender, with good flavor, and had clearly been made by someone who knew what they were doing. I didn’t actually see that vertical roasting spit that good al pastor is usually shaved off of, but it might have been back there. If not, this place found a way around it, and managed to create a solid meat product. The biggest problem, really, was that there was too much meat. Now, I know people are going to jump all over me for this, but this has been a problem all around with tacos I’ve had in NYC. The meat to tortilla to cilantro to onion ratio has to be just right. More meat is not necessarily better. If it’s just all meat, it doesn’t feel right in my mouth. The flavors don’t have enough space to come together and explode. Great tacos have a surprisingly small amount of meat. Less is more, less is more…repeat it, like a mantra.

As far as atmosphere goes, this place is pretty standard, and certainly doesn’t approach the excitement of Tortilleria Los Hermanos, but it’s plain and charming enough, and there’s a bathroom, which is kind of novelty for Mexican restaurants in and of itself.

Obviously, I’ve got to go back and try more before we really know what we have here, but I’d say Taqueria El Paisa is a good bet in Bushwick.

***

Taqueria El Paisa
Corner of Irving and Suydam
Bushwick, Brooklyn, NYC