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3 Tacos, 2 Jochos, y 1 Hamburguesa August 19, 2021

Living in a (mostly) vegetarian home for the first time since college, I become reacquainted with my occasional primal urges for meat, which cause me to prowl the streets, often after hours, among the other carnivore denizens.  There are more than a few if you stay clear of the vegan sanctuaries on Guadalupe Andador.  Fortunately, San Cristóbal has no shortage of greasy options for the glutamine addicts, which includes practically everyone in Mexico.    

Carnitas Azcapo is the closest taco joint in our barrio, worming its way like an alimentary canal from a splendid little courtyard on Calle Madero, through the open kitchen area, and into a no-frills dining garage facing the Church of San Francisco.  The green courtyard is a menagerie of hummingbirds, chickens, and guinea pigs, and there is even an old fountain with plump goldfish.  Taking up one corner is the largest Maguey plant I have ever seen, its base resembling an enormous pineapple.  The classic pointed Agave fronds protrude several feet in all directions, and from its center a stalk, a tree really, extends up over 20-feet, with multiple branches bearing small green bulbs.  I can see why the Pulque brewers want a piece of the heart of this surreal flora.

Out on the dining slab, a woman is playing guitar in a skirt and mud-splattered Wellington boots, singing like a reggae angel but looking as if she just delivered a litter of pigs.  Masked waitresses rush by her with hot plates.  Savory steam pours out of the unvented kitchen all the way onto the streets, summoning the working class to its habitual 2-o’clock lunch.  It will be harder to work after this meal, so most diners opt for Agua de Jamaica instead of beer in their plastic cups.  

Carnitas are the old-style tacos sold at Azcapo.  The meat is shredded or minced pork, fried, often from parts of the animal best not shared in polite company, and it can be dry, so the condiments are essential.  These include red and green salsas, raw white onion, lime wedges, and, if your gut is feeling brave, chopped cilantro.  Each taco comes with 2 corn tortillas, and the price is 12 pesos.  Recalling the rule of thumb for taco pricing, 15 pesos is a pricey taco, and 10 is a bargain.  If the taco is 5 pesos, it is time to count the guinea pigs in the courtyard. 

Tacoleto, on Calle Madero,specializes in a relatively recent entry to taco cuisine, Tacos Al Pastor, an upscale version of the traditional taco, price 15 pesos.  Types of meat vary but can include arrachera beef.  A slice of seared pineapple is signature.  Single tortilla is more common than 2, so expect to clutch a fork.  In Mexico City, the Pastor chefs perform feats like the knife-wielders at Benihana or the fish-flingers at Pike’s seafood market, precisely slashing pineapple while carving slivers of meat, then launching them through the air to a waiting tortilla in the other hand.  The circus act can resemble a shortstop trying to catch a popup in the wind, only with a dripping machete.

By nine o’clock, Carnitas Azcapo is long closed, and Tacoleto is overcrowded with spillover from the latin dance-bar across the street.  Dancers are irritated to discover there is a 50-pesos cover charge just to move to the canned music.  “Dancing is free,” my source insists.  Furthermore, 50-pesos are better spent on 3 tacos al pastor.  It can also buy one hamburger, and the American in me tries to chase one down on Calle Insurgente.

Five identical hamburguesa-stands form a line on the well-lit sidewalk beside San Francisco Church.  Each sells the exact same products—hamburgers for 40 pesos, hotdogs (jochos) for 20 pesos, with fixings.  Oily fries cost extra.  The menus and signs are absolutely identical but for the names of each independent chef—Luis, Juanito, Pancho, Alfredo, and Lucy—and each has an identical pair of stools in front.  Choosing which stand to purchase a burger is like selecting a barber in an empty shop, each chef spreading his or her hands in welcome, sad eyes pleading, “Pick me.”  Once upon a time, there was likely just one hamburger vender outside this church, but when he made money, he inspired copycats.  It seems so redundant having 5 entrepreneurs selling the exact same stuff at the same price in the same location, but the genius emerges at a different time, when the crowds arrive later in the evening, and every stool is suddenly taken, and your only choice is the next available seat.  This is not a competition in the end but a cooperative arrangement.  And if Lucy and the others sell enough burgers, they may even make space for a sixth hamburguesa y jocho-stand in the future.  And what a future this will be.       

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