Taqueria Victor Hugo.
Actually, his phone auto-completed to Taqueria Victoria Hugo and this motherfucker let it go through like that. How can this man be trusted?
In fact, fuck it. Here’s the man, the myth, in his own words:
Lofty claims, mon frer, lofty claims. May I remind you of the #dollartacodebacle?
Alright, enough horsing around.
After dicking off with Google Maps (who tried to send me down to 59th & Nic, fuckers) I got over to the brick and mortar location at 4th & Lake and I saunter up to the counter - ah, the lost art of the saunter - and order my burrito and you know what I’m going for:
Lengua.
I like lengua. I like barbacoa and tinga, too, but I saw lengua and shot for that. If you can wow me with lengua, you have my respect. That and I just like lengua.
(Psst! It’s tongue!)
(Yeah, the meat your great grandparents ate during World War I, back when it was just called “The Great War”, back when you pappaw or grammy was conceived at a World’s Fair after a spirited lap around the Maypole during the Cotillion or something. Great grampa Horatio didn’t pull out in time and great gramma Hortence tried to wipe up the mess with the Little Nemo strip she found in the rubbish bin next to them but two months later they were unhappily married til death would they part because Hortence was in a family way and your grandparent the mistake would come into this world and they couldn’t split because divorce wasn’t invented until the seventies which is why half of all Americans got one starting exactly then, including Don and Wendy Cobain, the most famous divorced couple in history thanks to their shithead son who just couldn’t stop writing songs about it.)
(ANYway…)
GF asked me how it was after I got back and I told her it wasn’t bad but it also wasn’t exciting.
Kafe Nasty wasn’t lying, there was a lot of meat and a little rice and a little refried beans and a little lettuce and I think there were some tomatoes in there, something red was in there but not much of it and next to zero cheese and absolutely zero guacamole and, I really hate to be a Basic Bethany about this, not nearly enough crema.
No, for real, there are two things I have learned about white women and their collective relationship to Mexican cuisine over the years. From Anna, I learned that “white bitches love Taco Bell” and, from Janis, I learned that “you can never have enough sour cream”. I would have liked a little more than the teaspoon it seemed I got on my burrito.
I got a big squeeze bottle of salsa verde with which to flavor my burrito. I liked it.
It was big, yeah, but I’ve had bigger. Still, I got hit with the itis so hard I nearly passed out in the restaurant and I still had to bike home. I got home sweaty as a motherfucker but only because the side effects from my Norvasc have been kicking back in lately.
I understand that Kafe Nasty told me to get the carne asada burrito and I didn’t, I’m aware that people would probably gag at the idea of lengua (which makes no sense, it’s an incredibly tender and incredibly lean red meat).
I was satisfied with the size which was just right, I liked the flavor but I wasn’t excited by it, the price was right, the bottom line is that this is a meat-centric burrito, so something admittedly one-note like lengua instead of something complex like barbacoa or tinga was a bad call. Kafe Nasty told me this was a meat heavy burrito, I should have heeded his warning but I would not have qualified cheese, crema, salsa, veggies under the same heading of “Filler” as beans, lettuce (and we’ve been over lettuce), and rice.
It wasn’t bad but I have to send you there with the caveat that you’re going to want to pick one of the more flavorful meats available since meat dominates the burrito. Hell, when I go back, I’ll be picking a different meat. If I’m going back, you know they were good.
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