TLAQUEPAQUE, JAL, MX—When we last left off our story, your intrepid wanderers were hungry. As we’ve already established, the main meal of the day here is at around two or three in the afternoon, so at about eight at night you need a little something to tide you over until breakfast the next morning. This is where the taco comes in. This is by no means the only dish served at cena, but it is my favorite. Tacos are not just eaten at night either; it serves as a late breakfast, afternoon pick me up and late night snack—anytime is the right time for this little meat, cilantro and onion delight.
The key is to find the right place, of course. Tacarías, or taco stands, can be found on almost every corner, but one must be choosey in picking the spot to chow down at. There are more upscale places, like Tacos Providencia (that has very good tacos, some say the best in the city), that is housed in an actual building, with some of the trappings of a typical diner and appears to be following the health code. But what’s the fun in that? You want to keep it real. You want to hit the street. You also want to avoid dysentery. And I’ve got news for you, the locals do also. If you see a taco stand and no one is at it, other than a lonely little guy with a sad, frustrated look, cleaver in hand, chopping away earnestly at the meat on his little wood chopping block, meat that no one will ever eat, stay away. The odds are people got sick there and the word has gotten out. If right on the opposite corner there is a stand with people standing ten deep to get at the carnal goodness awaiting them, step on line. I’m sure the wait will be worth the wait.
Now there is one caveat to all this. As is typical with me, I took formal Spanish lessons as I was ending my stay here in 2001 (long story). The school I went to had flyers for the students alerting them to the dangers of eating food from street venders, especially tacos. When I protested to my profesora that tacos were practically a food group unto themselves, she replied, “Oh, Tom, you’ve been here for three years. Your system is use to it. These poor guys will get sick as dogs!” I dispute that a little, because my first week in Guadalajara in 1998 I ate at a taco stand in an abandoned lot from a guy who had his hibachi set up on the tailgate of a 1972 Ford Country Squire station wagon. No worries, as the Aussies say. But if you do have a weak constitution, or have never really tested the outer limits of you gastrointestinal system’s tolerances, stick to the diner.
Fr. Eric credits me with showing him the little gem that is El Rancho Blanco. I’m not sure if that’s apocryphal, but Francisco Oriel, AKA Oso (Bear), who was the deacon in charge of my small group at the time, showed me the place one evening when he took the group out for supper. Oso was, and I’m assuming still is, the king of the drive thru. His dream was to be assigned to Piedras Negras, which is just across the border from Eagle Pass, Texas because there was a Wendy’s on the U.S. side. He knew every burger joint in Guadalajara, as well as taco stand. In fact he could locate any type of sidewalk venders you could think of: deep fried hotdogs mixed with French fries in paper bowl, churos, elote (corn on the cob smothered in cream and chili powder) tamales, tortas ahogadas (literally “drowned sandwich,” a hero of sorts, made with pork and submerged in a hot sauce that will make you beg for mercy). Ah, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it. I do believe Oso favored me a bit, because he usually included me in his clandestine late night trips to satisfy whatever craving he was having (What-A-Burger was his favorite spot). But, as usual, I digress.
Upon returning to Mexico a trip to Rancho Blanco was high on the priority list. So after a day of hopping buses and running around town, we came back to the residence, cleaned up and made our way down through the Parian. Rancho Blanco isn’t the hardest place to find, it’s pretty much a straight shot down one of the main street in Tlaquepaque. But you have to go past the tourist area and into the neighborhood, a place most foreigners never wander. The street at that point is not very well lit, and you do have to watch your step a bit. But once you hit the karate school you know that you’re almost there.
Rancho Blanco is a small store front operation with a table and benches on the sidewalk, and a counter and table inside. The portable grill and work station, about the size of a hotdog cart, is just inside the entrance. Many times these places are on the sidewalk with a roped off area filled with pick nick tables. Sometimes there is a counter around the stand itself.
Anyway, Fr. Eric and I sat down at the outside table, just by the entrance and the waitress stepped up to take our order. She was trying to suppress a laugh, because, I guess, she couldn’t figure out what we were doing there. She talked slowly, correctly identifying us as Norteamericanos, but when we shot back our order, knowing the meat and trimmings we wanted without a pause her eyes lit up a bit. I’m a suadero and chorizo man, myself; don’t forget the cilantro and onions. And yea, bring he salsa roja, por favor.
Within a few minutes, they arrive. A plate of silver dollar pancake size tortillas filled with the meat of your choice. Suadero is a cut of beef, that in many places can be gristly, but here is always lean. Chorizo is a red sausage, great with eggs. On the table are placed clay jars of beans, extra onions, small bowls of red and green sauce (yes, hot, both of them) and limes. I’m strictly a red sauce man, but many put the beans on top and maybe squeeze a little lime over the top, before putting on the salsa. Ahh, heaven. The tortillas are doubled up, and if you leave the bottom one they charge you less on subsequent orders.
Remember, you never order just one serving. The first round is to test things out, trying different meats; bistec, cerebra, lengua, al pastor, whatever. Then you zero in on what you like for the second and third rounds. After finishing the first round of six tacos, I waved to the waitress who made the international sign for bringing the check, waving an invisible pen at an invisible pad. When I told her that I didn’t want the check, but more tacos, she gave that wide eyed look again and said “de verdad?” (Really?)
Well, to make a short story long, we ate and were more than satisfied. Back in the day I could have done a dozen blindfolded and fifteen, no problem. But prudence made me stop with ten. Many times the memories we have are greater than the reality, but I can say the tacos at Rancho Blanco were as good as I remember them.
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