…Continued form La Posta

(Miss Taca enjoys her anonymity)

Don Carlos is another old-time hangout. The veggies always loved it, cause of their potato rolled tacos. I always loved it cause it was just down the street form the coffee hangout, The Pannikin and the food was always good. Plus, they are right next to Dick’s Liquors. The eternal adolescent in me still considers that the best liquor store name, ever.

The menu is and always has been plastered up against the wall, scrawled on a multitude of paper place trays or something. I don’t remember. Whatever it was, it was confusing me. Suddenly, I had a dilemma. I only remembered getting rolled tacos – or possibly burrito’s – from this place. Yet, I needed a torta. I knew they were not-so-good in SF, but I was getting a sense that this was not the torta I was in search of. That Mexican food sense was kicking in. I should have gotten a torta at La Posta and planned on getting rolled tacos here. Oh damn, I fucked up. What was I going to do? Oh shi..
“Two shredded beef tortas please.”
The pressure got to me. We were the only two in the shop and the cook was waiting to see what we would order. Damn. I blame it on that damn confusing menu.

As soon as I got over the shock of having to make a decision, I knew everything would be ok. I ordered what I wanted to after all. I did what I was supposed to! Food was coming!
We took ourselves outside and sat on the small patio to wait for our dinner. Taca talked about how pretty San Diego was and how I had always made it seem like an awful place. I tried to back track and say it was great to grow up in it, but time to leave, blah, blah, blah. Oh! We used to have bonfires just down the street, I’ll show you…

“Tortas up!”

I jumped up in mid sentence and went to get the food.

Looked good, all wrapped up and cut in half, salsa-fied lettuce streaming out… but it was the wrong bread. The damn wrong bread. Looked French. At least it wasn’t sourdough. And it was soaked through.
Ugh. Mushy, wrong bread, shredded beef mess.
“Sloppy joe’s!” Taca said.
I agreed. All wrong.
I took a bite.
It was delicious.
Maybe.
“Mmmm,” Taca said.
I agreed.
“No, I said: ‘Hmmm’”
“Oh.”
I couldn’t disagree. While the parts were all there, the execution fell short. Also, it is perhaps an acquired taste; refried beans on a sandwich does take a slight tongue adjustment to enjoy – and can be immensely enjoyable, when properly employed. However, in this example, the beans should have kept the beef juice from soaking right through the bun. The beef, while tasty was simply no match for any bean defense. In short: forks were needed.

With these serious gut-bombs settling in our stomachs, we drove down to Marine St. to watch the sun set. After so many bonfires I get a hangover just being there. Of course, cheap beer (Wiedemann was it? The Wiedemann Weep?) still does it to me. Just nowadays I don’t have a handy dandy all night quick fill up joint to add greasy goodness amongst my innards. I couldn’t help feeling I was doing it backwards. Drinking, then torta. OR, torta then rolled tacos. Oh well. This San Diego Mexican food thing is simply gonna have to take more (re)practice. Meanwhile, despite my lack of foresight and planning a new convert has been added to the roster. After all, rolled tacos and delicious hot sauce trump messy Mexican sloppy joe’s any day. Yes, yes, I know. Shredded beef, not ground. And it WAS tasty, not trashy. It just goes to show; a fantastic sunset and a layer of rolled tacos just can’t be topped.