The Elusive Tacos El Palmar
Me, searching for a week to find a taco truck right by my house.
Monday
I met up with some colorful characters at the infamous Big Star Bar on a Monday night in the Houston Heights. Naturally, our mutual conversation turned to tacos, so I suggested the nearby Tacos Three Amigos truck on 20th street one block away.
As we all know, every crew you run across involves at least one slinky vegetarian girl that tries to change up the food game for everyone. I can play this game all day long on my side of town, because I’ve got tacos for anyone, even these “I’m-Audrey-Hepburn- except-I-don’t-wear-fur” types.
For instance, Tacos Three Amigos has excellent cactus tacos (nopales). Vegetarian problem solved.
“Hurry, they close early on slow nights”, I noted.
They headed to the truck around the block, but the leader of the pack, Martinez, called me back to tell me that Tacos Three Amigos was closed. Bummer. But then he told me something that blew my mind.
“The truck on 20th was closed, but I found another one down the street on 19th.”
“There isn’t a truck on 19th Street.”
“Yes, there is. And they’re making corn tortillas from scratch, cabron.”
I vaulted over the patio fence at Big Star and jumped through the open window of my front seat, keys in hand. The other bar patrons, understanding the importance of this mission, were probably happy to pay my tab for such a noble purpose.
It was only a block or two down the street. When the taco truck was within view, I hit my brakes, sliding to a halt at the front of the truck, sending a swirl of dust that cycloned into the distance. A lone, underfed Rottweiler mix eyed me intently. My boots made awesome crunching sounds in the gravel as I walked to the window.
Cold nights are perfect for great tacos.
Tacos El Palmar lit up like a glorious apparition of The Virgin Mary herself. Behind it sat a large nightclub I never knew existed.
“How could I have never seen this?”, I pondered to myself as I tossed a crumpled Tecate can in the bed of the Cummins 6.7 liter Turbo Diesel 4×4 with mud tires.
Walking to the taco truck, I spotted a large chrome bowl full of corn masa. A classical orchestra played in my mind. It was probably Beethoven or Bach or something you would hear at the end of a Michael Bay movie.
“Jesus Mary, Mother of Corn Tortillas!”, I stated aloud to the Catholic taco patrons.
A tiny taco lady briskly compressed the tortillas and nimbly placed them on the grill with her fingers, as I caught myself mouth-breathing.
I ordered one taco al pastor and one suadero taco at the crowded taco stand. “Con Todo!” (with everything), I announced to the taco man.
Usually when you say “con todo”, you’re getting cilantro and onions on that taco, and occasionally a slice of avocado. At Tacos El Palmar, they tend to add lettuce to that combination as well. Or maybe they just keep the lettuce around just for the gabachos. I’d prefer it without the lettuce, and I don’t mind it, but lettuce on a taco just bugs me for some reason. It’s just a matter of principle, really. Lettuce has no purpose on a taco. I picked off the lettuce and inhaled the tacos. They were fantastic.
I had a party to go to so I burned off, pledging to visit the stand again tomorrow with a camera. This place ain’t going nowhere. Or so I thought.
Tuesday:
"There is no taco truck here. Please leeeeeave"
I drove down 19th street at about 7:30 PM. The truck was not there, and I couldn’t even find the discoteca behind it. It had simply vanished. Perhaps it had been a cruel, delicious apparition. I figured that if I had to stand at a crossroads or click my boot heels or something to bring it back, 12:00 might be appropriate, so I showed up at midnight. No dice.
I went into the Big Star Bar to investigate. The bartender was vaguely familiar with it, and explained that it was generally open from Thursday to Sunday night. Apparently Tacos El Palmar is only open at night, and only when the club is open. A Chicano gentleman to my left named Jesus overheard our conversation and pulled me aside.
“You’re talking about El Bola Loca, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t get the name of the place. Why?”
“You should watch your ass when you go in there, man. Hondurans.”, he explained, as if he were answering a really easy math question.
“What’s wrong with Hondurans?”, I politely inquired.
His tone changed. “They’re almost as crazy as the fucking Salvadorians”, he whispered.
Jesus then explained why he was skeptical to visit the El Bola Loca nightclub. In his best ghost-story voice, he told me about Central American gangs that frequent the place, as well as their low-tolerance threshold for people that didn’t belong there.
“You should be okay though”, he added. “You look kinda like a cop”.
Thursday
I found Tacos El Palmar again. Thursday was an odd night for Houston- the temperatures were dropping below zero, and snow was expected the next day. A windy, icy drizzle pelted my face like a swarm of furious, tiny icicle-wielding Icelandic bee robots that hated me.
Jesus told me to be wary of Honduran and Salvadorian gang members.
I noticed that the nightclub behind it was not called “El Bola Loca (The Crazy Hat)” after all, but “La Pachanga (Rowdy Celebration)“.
I carefully scanned the area for Hondurans and Salvadorians anyway. I don’t really know what they look like, but I’m guessing that they look like Mexicans, but shorter.
The place was not crowded this time, apparently the weather had run off all but the most dedicated partygoers. Taco Lady was gone, so it looked like I was stuck with Taco Man. He reached into a bag of locally made La Ranchera tortillas.
“I thought you guys made corn tortillas from scratch”, I asked sternly in grade-school Spanish, even though he knew perfect English.
“Don’t worry, these are good tortillas”.
They were, in fact, pretty good corn tortillas. But they were not made from scratch. The suadero’s texture was wrong, like chopped barbecue, but it tasted good. I actually had a hard time telling the difference between the suadero and the pastor, although these meats are entirely different. I found this odd, but the tacos were still enjoyable.
The fajita tacos were the star of the evening. These were top notch, and had excellent texture and flavor. The salsas were unique as well. The salsa roja was actually more of a yellow color, and was quite mild. The salsa verde was fantastic. Obviously made with fresh tomatillos, it was a bright green color, and had a good flavor and burn to it.
La Pachanga Bar, behind the taco stand. If it's not lit up, it's invisible.
I thought I’d go ahead and check out La Pachanga. I noticed a security guard at the front door, so I put my Beretta PX4 Storm back in the truck and locked it up. He patted me down and informed me that there was no smoking inside, which indicated that he probably thought I was some kind of inspector or city worker.
* Taco Tip: Don’t order a Tecate or Corona in a Latino bar. Just suck it up and order a Miller Lite like everyone else, fancypants.
Friday
I stopped in Friday night, again around midnight. Taco Lady was there, and I got about four kinds of tacos. The fajita tacos were still the favorite. Rather than following the general “red salsa on beef, green salsa on chicken/pork” rule, I prefer dumping the salsa verde all over the delicious fajita tacos, served on fresh corn tortillas from scratch.
Like most wonderful things, you’ll have to catch this truck at the right time. This elusive taco truck is only in business when the nightclub is in full-blown party mode. Please note that La Pachanga is only open on Thursday through Sunday, and if the nightclub is slow, then you might not get Taco Lady with the wonderful tortillas caseros. You will get Taco Man.
Either way, the tacos are a hit. If you swing by and you can’t find it, that’s because it’s not there.
Taco Man looked similar to Cypress Hill frontman "B-Real".
Excellent!!!! Belly laughs as always, Jay.
I haven’t done a shred of research or rational thinking, but I think the key to monetizing your taco expertise (and brilliant writing) is to write a book about your taco travels; probably half done already if you consider compiling existing articles, verdad?
I can’t be the first person to suggest this, but it’s clearly your passion (1 of them) and there’s a huge audience for your style of writing . . .
.-= Jeff Timpanaro´s last blog ..The Simple Choice =-.
Thanks, Jeff. Much appreciated.
I almost did a spit take (in my cubicle) when I read this: “A windy, icy drizzle pelted my face like a swarm of furious, tiny icicle-wielding Icelandic bee robots that hated me.”
Now that Honduras has had their fair and transparent elections it’s time to
gather up and go build some homes in the countryside. It’s a shame the world wants to punish these people for the faults of their leaders and the ambitions of others.
Thanks Erika, glad you liked it.