so here’s the thing. tacos. i keep telling myself I’m not obsessed, but then I look at my grocery list and—yep, tortillas again. tortillas and limes, like every single week. I once went to the store for laundry detergent and walked out with… three different types of chiles and a bag of cilantro that I swore I’d keep alive in a jar of water. spoiler: it wilted in 2 days because apparently my kitchen is where cilantro goes to die.
but tacos. specifically, the kind you get at a stand in Mexico City at 2 a.m. with car horns blaring and someone’s abuela still working the griddle like a total boss. I tried to chase that flavor at home and failed, hard. the first time, my tortillas stuck to the pan like sad little pancakes. the second time, I under-seasoned the meat so badly that even my cat (who once chewed a piece of cardboard box for fun) sniffed it and walked away.
tacos taste better standing up (fight me)
here’s my theory: sitting down makes tacos worse. don’t ask me for science. just vibes. the best tacos happen when you’re leaning on a counter, juice running down your arm, napkins slipping everywhere, and you’re laughing because you’re basically in a one-person food battle.
I once tried to host a “fancy taco dinner” with proper plates, wine glasses, candles. mistake. it felt stiff, like I was forcing tacos to wear a tuxedo. now I eat them over my kitchen counter, hunched like a gremlin, salsa bottle in one hand, tortilla in the other. perfection.
tortillas: my love/hate saga
I went through a whole tortilla phase. like, grinding corn nixtamal style because I thought authenticity = suffering. it tasted amazing, yes. it also left me crying in the kitchen at midnight with masa glued to my hands. so now? compromise.
sometimes I buy store tortillas (don’t judge). but I always, always heat them properly. straight on the gas flame until they puff a little. if you’ve only ever eaten cold tortillas out of a bag, I’m begging you, please—just once—do the flame trick. it’s like turning “meh” into “magic.”
also, pro-tip: double up. because one tortilla will rip, and then you’ll have fillings sliding onto the floor, and if you don’t have a pet to clean up the mess, you’ll hate yourself.
filling it up (not too much, rookie mistake)
I used to treat tacos like burritos. pile it high. cheese, lettuce, sour cream, guac, beans, salsa, whatever was lurking in my fridge. and guess what? it tasted like chaos.
real-deal street tacos = minimalism.
meat (marinated beef, chicken, pork, doesn’t matter, just season it well)
onion (raw, sharp, unapologetic)
cilantro (fresh, don’t you dare pull out that dried nonsense)
lime squeeze (tiny, but mighty)
and that’s it. no shredded cheddar blizzards, no iceberg lettuce avalanches. if you want extra, fine, but know you’re straying from the path.
salsa deserves main character energy
okay listen. salsa is not a sidekick. it’s not optional. it’s not the garnish you forget in the fridge. salsa IS the taco.
sometimes I go green (roast tomatillos, blend with garlic and jalapeño, salt till it sings). sometimes I go red (toasted dried chiles, a little vinegar, garlic, blend). once I got cocky and added mango for “fun.” was it good? yeah. was it taco-stand authentic? absolutely not.
my current obsession = salsa verde that’s too spicy for my own good. I take one bite, say “never again,” then go back for another.
marinating meat: don’t overthink it (but also, don’t skip it)
lime. garlic. chili powder. maybe a splash of orange juice if I have one rolling around in the fruit bowl looking sad. salt, always. that’s enough.
once I drowned chicken in soy sauce + beer + honey because some blog told me it was “fusion.” tasted like confusion. tacos don’t need that. give me lime and high heat and a pan that smokes so much I have to open every window in my apartment.
toppings I sneak in when no one’s watching
purists: cover your eyes.
queso fresco (crumbly heaven)
radishes (because they look photogenic, and yes, I’m shallow)
pickled red onions (legit, I eat them out of the jar)
avocado slices (I said tacos don’t need guac but… I lied, okay?)
sometimes I even throw pineapple chunks on pork because I’m pretending I own a spinning trompo. does it taste right? eh. but it makes me happy.
embarrassing side note
made tacos for a date once. forgot cilantro. panicked. sprinted to the corner store. they were out. ended up “borrowing” some from my neighbor’s garden (she caught me, I waved, she rolled her eyes, it was fine).
the tacos worked. he ate three. called them “legit.” now he’s my boyfriend of two years. moral: cilantro is basically a dating app.
drinks (don’t overcomplicate it)
if you want to be true to the vibe:
coke in a glass bottle (Mexican coke if you can find it, trust me)
cold beer (lagers > IPAs here)
agua fresca (hibiscus, tamarind, lime)
I once paired tacos with merlot. mistake. tasted like sadness.
notes scribbled on a napkin (aka, my taco rules)
warm tortillas last minute. never ahead.
cut meat tiny. don’t make me fight dangling strips of steak.
don’t skip lime. it’s like punctuation.
stand up to eat. preferably near a window.
salsa. more salsa.
writing this I realize tacos are less of a recipe and more of a state of mind. messy. joyful. slightly dangerous for your shirt. you don’t need a perfect kitchen or expensive gear. you just need tortillas that aren’t sad, meat with some char, and the willingness to lean over the counter with salsa dripping on your arm like you meant to do it.