Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Sunday chow
Out of the rain in City Heights, scarfing two rambunctious tacos
What $3 buys
"Sorry about your leader.”
“Thank you. But it’s been a long time. Thirty years since I left.”
Raul’s from Cuba. I want to ask what he feels about Fidel. But conversation drifts.
We happen to be leaning over the counter on the veranda here at 38th Street. Me, for my birria taco. Him, just chatting with the girls at his regular hangout here.
I have definitely gotten lucky. This is Sunday night. Around 9:30. City Heights. Raining. Cold. Unwelcoming. Dark. Nothing open.
And, dammit, I need to eat. All day no grub. Was hiking down University through this closed-down community, then rescue! A canvas banner sign fwopping in the rainy breeze.
“We Are Open.” And lights! Maybe the sign actually means it. Which is putting me between a rock and a hard place, because I’m battling between hunger, cold on the one hand, and on the other, with Sunday buses petering out, fear of having to walk all the way to the Pacific. Like my hero Jedediah Smith, mountain man. (Except he walked all the way from, like, St Louis. Arrived in 1826.)
So, yes. I should be heading for the #7 bus stop at 37th Street. Then again, this scene I’m looking at! It’s like old parts of TJ. A wooden deck sheltered under massive old trees. Ficus. Same jungle trees that strangled the temples at Angkor Wat in Cambodia.
It’s a little veranda porch, painted yellow, green, and maroon, with green wood railings protecting two or three tables. They sit in a pool of light that bounces off the parking lot puddles. Takes a moment to realize the tile-roof overhang is the end of Victor’s Market, a Mexican grocery.
So, I cross the parking lot toward the wooden deck. Notice blue smoke puffing up from behind a counter. Aha. Cooking.
“El Paisano,” reads the sign above. “Welcome. Bienvenidos. We Are Open. Abierto.”
It looks small and cozy because the trees looming overhead are so massive. Especially now, at night. A few people sit at the tables on the deck, eating away, talking quietly.
Raul, Alma, Alexia
Now I’m getting smells of meat sautéing. Oh, man. The two ladies, Alexia and Alma, are surprisingly busy. Alma’s flipping six tortillas, all smoking on the hot plate, with her fingers. Alexia’s taking orders from a tall customer standing against the table of salsas. Two more people wait behind him. There’s no menu, no “Please wait to be seated” BS. People keep coming.
“Tacos,” this guy’s saying. “Three, three, three.”
“So three adobada, three carne asada, three birria?”
The guy nods.
“Thirteen-fifty, please.”
Conversation’s in Spanish. It takes a moment for me to do the math.
“Wow. That’s $1.50 each?”
“Si, señor,” says Raul. His rubbery body leans over the end of the counter. “And these ladies make the best. Of course, not cubano, but almost as good.”
He laughs.
“And do they do anything else? Burritos? Tortas?” I ask.
“No,” says Alexia. “Just tacos. But on Fridays we have tripa — tripe — tacos, and we also usually have shrimp; they are $2.50.”
I pay out $1.50 for each of tonight’s tacos, and another buck for a can of Crush orange soda. Total investment, $5.50.
And what an investment. Each taco’s double-wrapped in slightly crisp corn tortillas, fried with oil on the hot plate. I load them up with red salsa, green salsa, chopped onions, cilantro, guac, the usual suspects. And, boy, you need the guac. to mellow out the chilis in the red and green salsas. This is professional class heat.
But the first thing I notice isn’t the flavors or the heat. It’s Julia.
Julia
Julia’s a black-and-white cat. She’s right at my feet. She’ll accept anything you offer, but she ain’t in no way begging.
“She’s a stray who spends every night with us,” says Alma. “She won’t let us pick her up, but she knows she’s family. We all love her. We have to be careful to give her meat that isn’t spicy.”
Mine is. The adobada — marinated pork — is also juicy and flavorful, and I’m learning to appreciate birria. I always thought birria had to be goat or mutton. But no. Even in Jalisco, where this stew was invented, they’ll also do it in beef or chicken. I knew birria was like menudo, good for hangovers, but didn’t realize it was a celebration dish, too. You have it at weddings and Christmas. You can taste the adobo it’s marinated in. Meaning the garlic, oregano, vinegar, and especially the paprika that makes it red. Paprika has good antibacterial powers, too.
But the surprise is my carne asada taco. It’s got a delicious tang to it. And the meat’s slightly crunchy, muy tender. Plus, I love these fried tortillas.
“Are there tortillas in Havana?” I ask Raul.
“Well, we usually eat pan, bread. And our Cuban flour has a different flavor. I miss it.”
I ask if he misses anything else, 30 years after leaving Havana.
“I love San Diego, and I thank the United States for giving me freedom.” He holds his hands in prayer and then lays them on the counter. “But, yes, I miss my family who are still there. And the thing I miss most? Havana itself. Its tranquilidad. It was a quieter life.”
I sit back. This Sunday chow tastes so danged delicious. I mean, I know: tacos? We have them day in, day out. But here, tonight, there’s just something about the huge trees, the open deck, the green railings, the warm tacos, and the fellowship among us survivors of the week, crowded onto this little three-table island.
Alma tosses a few bits of grilled beef to Julia. Julia catches them, swallows them, and heads off into the night.
Out on University, an empty #7 bus roars westward.
The Place: El Paisano, attached to Victor’s Market,
Hours: 5–10 p.m. daily (closed Mondays)
Prices: Tacos (carne asada, adobada, birria, tripas), $1.50; shrimp tacos, $2.50
Buses: 7, 10, 60, 235, 965
Nearest bus stops: University at 38th (#7 eastbound); University at 39th (#7 westbound); City Heights Transit Plaza (I-15 ramp and University, near 40th Street), 10, 60, 235, 965
Here's something you might be interested in.
Sunday chow
Out of the rain in City Heights, scarfing two rambunctious tacos
Sunday chow
Out of the rain in City Heights, scarfing two rambunctious tacos
What $3 buys
"Sorry about your leader.”
“Thank you. But it’s been a long time. Thirty years since I left.”
Raul’s from Cuba. I want to ask what he feels about Fidel. But conversation drifts.
We happen to be leaning over the counter on the veranda here at 38th Street. Me, for my birria taco. Him, just chatting with the girls at his regular hangout here.
I have definitely gotten lucky. This is Sunday night. Around 9:30. City Heights. Raining. Cold. Unwelcoming. Dark. Nothing open.
And, dammit, I need to eat. All day no grub. Was hiking down University through this closed-down community, then rescue! A canvas banner sign fwopping in the rainy breeze.
“We Are Open.” And lights! Maybe the sign actually means it. Which is putting me between a rock and a hard place, because I’m battling between hunger, cold on the one hand, and on the other, with Sunday buses petering out, fear of having to walk all the way to the Pacific. Like my hero Jedediah Smith, mountain man. (Except he walked all the way from, like, St Louis. Arrived in 1826.)
So, yes. I should be heading for the #7 bus stop at 37th Street. Then again, this scene I’m looking at! It’s like old parts of TJ. A wooden deck sheltered under massive old trees. Ficus. Same jungle trees that strangled the temples at Angkor Wat in Cambodia.
It’s a little veranda porch, painted yellow, green, and maroon, with green wood railings protecting two or three tables. They sit in a pool of light that bounces off the parking lot puddles. Takes a moment to realize the tile-roof overhang is the end of Victor’s Market, a Mexican grocery.
So, I cross the parking lot toward the wooden deck. Notice blue smoke puffing up from behind a counter. Aha. Cooking.
“El Paisano,” reads the sign above. “Welcome. Bienvenidos. We Are Open. Abierto.”
It looks small and cozy because the trees looming overhead are so massive. Especially now, at night. A few people sit at the tables on the deck, eating away, talking quietly.
Raul, Alma, Alexia
Now I’m getting smells of meat sautéing. Oh, man. The two ladies, Alexia and Alma, are surprisingly busy. Alma’s flipping six tortillas, all smoking on the hot plate, with her fingers. Alexia’s taking orders from a tall customer standing against the table of salsas. Two more people wait behind him. There’s no menu, no “Please wait to be seated” BS. People keep coming.
“Tacos,” this guy’s saying. “Three, three, three.”
“So three adobada, three carne asada, three birria?”
The guy nods.
“Thirteen-fifty, please.”
Conversation’s in Spanish. It takes a moment for me to do the math.
“Wow. That’s $1.50 each?”
“Si, señor,” says Raul. His rubbery body leans over the end of the counter. “And these ladies make the best. Of course, not cubano, but almost as good.”
He laughs.
“And do they do anything else? Burritos? Tortas?” I ask.
“No,” says Alexia. “Just tacos. But on Fridays we have tripa — tripe — tacos, and we also usually have shrimp; they are $2.50.”
I pay out $1.50 for each of tonight’s tacos, and another buck for a can of Crush orange soda. Total investment, $5.50.
And what an investment. Each taco’s double-wrapped in slightly crisp corn tortillas, fried with oil on the hot plate. I load them up with red salsa, green salsa, chopped onions, cilantro, guac, the usual suspects. And, boy, you need the guac. to mellow out the chilis in the red and green salsas. This is professional class heat.
But the first thing I notice isn’t the flavors or the heat. It’s Julia.
Julia
Julia’s a black-and-white cat. She’s right at my feet. She’ll accept anything you offer, but she ain’t in no way begging.
“She’s a stray who spends every night with us,” says Alma. “She won’t let us pick her up, but she knows she’s family. We all love her. We have to be careful to give her meat that isn’t spicy.”
Mine is. The adobada — marinated pork — is also juicy and flavorful, and I’m learning to appreciate birria. I always thought birria had to be goat or mutton. But no. Even in Jalisco, where this stew was invented, they’ll also do it in beef or chicken. I knew birria was like menudo, good for hangovers, but didn’t realize it was a celebration dish, too. You have it at weddings and Christmas. You can taste the adobo it’s marinated in. Meaning the garlic, oregano, vinegar, and especially the paprika that makes it red. Paprika has good antibacterial powers, too.
But the surprise is my carne asada taco. It’s got a delicious tang to it. And the meat’s slightly crunchy, muy tender. Plus, I love these fried tortillas.
“Are there tortillas in Havana?” I ask Raul.
“Well, we usually eat pan, bread. And our Cuban flour has a different flavor. I miss it.”
I ask if he misses anything else, 30 years after leaving Havana.
“I love San Diego, and I thank the United States for giving me freedom.” He holds his hands in prayer and then lays them on the counter. “But, yes, I miss my family who are still there. And the thing I miss most? Havana itself. Its tranquilidad. It was a quieter life.”
I sit back. This Sunday chow tastes so danged delicious. I mean, I know: tacos? We have them day in, day out. But here, tonight, there’s just something about the huge trees, the open deck, the green railings, the warm tacos, and the fellowship among us survivors of the week, crowded onto this little three-table island.
Alma tosses a few bits of grilled beef to Julia. Julia catches them, swallows them, and heads off into the night.
Out on University, an empty #7 bus roars westward.
The Place: El Paisano, attached to Victor’s Market,
Hours: 5–10 p.m. daily (closed Mondays)
Prices: Tacos (carne asada, adobada, birria, tripas), $1.50; shrimp tacos, $2.50
Buses: 7, 10, 60, 235, 965
Nearest bus stops: University at 38th (#7 eastbound); University at 39th (#7 westbound); City Heights Transit Plaza (I-15 ramp and University, near 40th Street), 10, 60, 235, 965
Comments