La Vida Taco

You can breathe the very air of the Oakland flatlands in the exhaust
fumes of its taco trucks: fusty, delicious, galvanizing, jacked up. The
mobile lunch wagons — loncheras or loncherias
— crystallize the city’s id and serve up its needs and desires on
a foam plate at a buck and a quarter a pop. It’s possible to read the
aspirations of their owners and operators — the taqueros
— etched in the scarred metal quilting of the loncheras in
the barrio of East Oakland, a multi-neighborhood swath that straddles
Fruitvale and San Antonio.

Citywide, Oakland’s loncheras number more than a hundred,
says Aracely Garza, director of the Asociacion de Comerciantes Mobiles,
a local taquero organization. Reckoned by density alone, the
core of Oakland’s lonchera culture exists within a roughly
one-mile by two-mile stretch bound by the roughly parallel corridors of
International and Foothill boulevards. More than half of Oakland’s
trucks do business here. And it’s here where I undertook a month-long
taco-eating odyssey between New Year’s Day and January 30th, burrowing
deep into the city’s taco core to find its salsa-drenched essence. The
21 trucks I describe below are among Fruitvale and San Antonio’s most
visible, drawing laborers in paint-flecked coveralls, hipster
tacotarians, and neighborhood vatos for LDL
cholesterol–packed bliss.

Collectively, they’re a city treasure, a living, wheezing,
grease-fume-emitting bit of authentic street culture. Not to mention a
hella cheap source of lunch.

Like the automat and the drive-through espresso bar, taco trucks are
an American invention. Robb Walsh of the Houston Press traced
the lonchera to mobile Texas chile and tamale stands of the
1890s. By the 1930s, they were hitched to automobiles, and by the late
20th century, through some alchemy, the tamale had morphed into the
taco, and the Tex-Mex roving genre had moved into modified panel
catering trucks.

Oakland Tribune writer Angela Woodall reckons that the
Oakland scene began in the early 1980s, when Primitivo Guzman, inspired
by the trucks of LA, fired up a lonchera — El Zamorano
— at what is now the corner of High Street and International
Boulevard. Guzman went on to open a couple of El Taco Zamorano
restaurants, and later Guadalajara. Members of his extended family run
a number of loncheras, including Tacos Alonzo on Foothill, Tacos
el Novillo on Fruitvale, and the Zamorano truck on International at
48th Avenue.

These are zones unconcerned with novelty. Sorry, but you won’t find
some Top Chef–like compulsion to mix it up, add scallops
or exotic chiles to the mix — a single, unvarying palette rules.
A good taquero is much like any other taquero; variations
express themselves as differences in the taco-maker’s home region (a
salsa, a way of cooking carnitas), not driven by the urgency for
self-expression. Remember, cabrón: These are businesses
that stay viable by offering a basic, onion-flecked amenity. Of course,
cooks being human, they sometimes yield to slackardly impulses that
result in watery, fatty meats and bland salsas.

There is consolation in conformity — namely, a basic
level of quality reigns. In my latest exploration of the trucks, I’ve
spit out bites of a taco, and not just once. More often I’ve struggled
to differentiate how this clump of cabeza differs substantially
from that one. However, when something subtly but noticeably better
did present itself, it stood out like a traffic cone abandoned
in a fenced-off parking lot.

My rating system was roughly systematic. In order to make meaningful
comparisons, I generally stuck to the same taco order: lengua
(tongue), cabeza (head — beef cheeks and surrounding
parts, like the muzzle), and al pastor (“shepherd-style”). If a
truck had an obvious specialty — a shrimp tostada, or a taco
de tripa (not stomach, but the lower intestine of a pig, also known
as chitlins), I ordered it.

Why that particular trifecta? Well, in my opinion, they’re the
fillings best suited to realities of a taco truck kitchen, where the
flattop griddle (plancha) and steam table reign supreme. Much as
I love the tacos al carbon (filled with meats grilled over mesquite
charcoal, casually) of the Mexican streets, that ain’t happenin’ in a
mobile loncheria. And chicken? Well, although these are done
cazuela-style traditionally (stewed, the meat pulled form the
bones), and could potentially work in a lonchera, the reality is
almost always flavorless and disappointing.

A few things to keep in mind:

Lengua, or tongue, is never peeled (which kinda sucks), but
taqueros worth their salt will trim away the fat and gristle at
the base.

Cabeza, or head, should be tender and gelatinous, with a rich
beefy taste that indicates it hasn’t just had the crap boiled out of
it.

In Mexico, pork al pastor is usually sliced off a vertical
spit (along with a peeled pineapple roasting at the top of the
spindle), exactly like gyros. Its origins are unknown, although many
believe it was born in Merida in the Yucatan, where Lebanese immigrants
adapted traditional shawerma. It should have a rich, round
spicing that includes achiote, or annatto, a Yucatecan
favorite.

If you’re a truck novice, keep in mind that ordering “everything”
usually means a flurry of chopped onion and cilantro, and sometimes
salsa (in some places you add the salsa yourself, from a squirt
bottle). Tacos almost always come with sliced radishes, occasionally a
raw scallion or griddle-softened spring onion, and vegetables and
chiles en escabeche — pickled carrots, jalapeños,
and occasionally onions. At some places you can ask for frijoles de
la olla — pot beans — on the side.

International Boulevard corridor

Tacos Sinaloa #3. Parking lot at 2138 International Blvd. (at
22nd Ave.)

Scene: With its seafood sibling (see next entry),
bright-orange Sinaloa inhabits a virtual strip mall of taco goodness
and spiritual devotion — apt gateway to International Boulevard’s
sweeping streetscape of taquero culture. Along with the mirror
image Mi Grullense trucks further south, the Sinaloas are the best
known (and arguably the most accessible) taco trucks, either in or out
of the barrio. Here, twin loncheras bracket a swath of real
estate that, besides parked cars, sports a party room and commissary
kitchen, patio tables under a broad overhang, and a shrine (painted
Slushee blue, adorned with plastic flowers) to the Virgin of Guadalupe.
This may be the only place in town you’ll see spindly art students in
painfully ultra-skinny-leg jeans eating in proximity to saggy-pants
vatos with neck ink and swagger. Miracle? You decide.

Comida: The taco de lengua ain’t bad — a
judicious spurt of tomatillo salsa mixing it up with onion and
cilantro. But the tongue itself? Weak flavor, like it was stored in
water after cooking. On the other hand, the cabeza is full bore:
soft and stewy, with a lush beefy taste and zero clots of fat.

Extra cookie: Chorizo tacos aren’t everyday fare, but when
you crave one, this is it: grizzled and grainy, greaseless as a chorizo
taco can be, with a thrilling burnt-spice shadow and slow sear from the
chipotle-laced salsa.

The takeaway: Perfect start to any truck odyssey — pray
to the Virgin for luck and a minimum of churning stomach acids.

Mariscos Sinaloa #1. See previous entry.

Comida: You’re in fish taco territory, but banish all thought
of those Mrs.-Paul’s-Fish-Stick-and-mayo stomach bombs you get in Cabo
and Mission Beach. Here, a taco de pescado means a scattered
mosaic of crisp, griddle-fried diced fish, red onion, tomato, and
jalapeño. Fantastic. Tiny bay shrimp blanket a double layer of
tortillas for taco de camaron, all discretely slicked up with
smoky, lip-burning chipotle salsa.

Extra cookie: The taco maker toasts the tortillas on the
plancha, yielding a crisp-chewy aureole around the rim.

The takeaway: Tastes so vivid you swear you can hear the
breeze rustling the palapa fronds.

Tacos el Grullo. Parking lot in front of C&H Sound, 2610
International Blvd. (near 27th Ave.)

Scene: A single stand-up table, where kids nurse Mexican
bottle Cokes after school; the truck’s backside mural depicts a
sweeping panorama (the landscape around El Grullo, Jalisco?) done up in
an arid, tawny palette.

Comida: Doused in green salsa, the heap of pale lengua
is swampy. So is the cabeza, and fatty as hell. An oily,
strong-tasting taco al pastor is essentially indigestible, if
not technically inedible.

Oh, hell no: That green salsa — beneath the tang, it
tastes beery, like it’s begun to ferment.

The takeaway: Trust the kids — stick to Cokes.

Mi Grullense. North end (closer to 29th Ave.), 1301 30th
Ave.

Scene: One of two side-by-side loncheras: same name,
same lot, essentially identical food, different operators. The name
refers to El Grullo, a town in the Autlán region of Jalisco,
where many in Fruitvale have roots (check out the painted image on the
lonchera‘s back: a stone crane — a grullo —
in the fountain of El Grullo’s plaza). Together with the Tacos Sinaloa
compound (see prior entries), these trucks represent the omphalos of
Oakland taco culture, the inevitable destination for outside-the-barrio
cravers of comida.

Comida: The lengua is moist, but suffers from fatty
mouth feel — ew. Sloppy-wet cabeza is better, the clump of
brisket-like shards rocking a marked beefiness. Both come pre-slathered
in fairly wan tomatillo salsa. The taco al pastor is an
unequivocal miss: tough matchsticks of pork and wisps of fried onion,
splooged up with heavily achiote-laced spicing.

The takeaway: Accessible, but the food’s merely middling.

Mi Grullense. South end (near 30th Ave.), Goodwill parking
lot, 1301 30th Ave.

Scene: See previous entry.

Comida: Soft, stewy tongue, and cabeza every bit as
briskety as that of its rival. Similarly so-so salsa douses both. The
pastor is marginally tastier than at the Mi Grullense to your
left, with a nicer texture (though still firm) and a warm-tasting salsa
with a throbbing achiote heart.

Extra cookie: The yellow corn tortillas here seem extra plush
and maize-y.

The takeaway: A pelo or two better than middling.

Tacos el Paisa. Parking lot behind La Parilla Grill, 2900
International Blvd. (enter on 29th Ave.)

Scene: Lovably tarnished stainless, amid the relatively
peaceful surrounds of a shrub-lined lot away from the boulevard.

Comida: The coarse-textured, deliciously soapy tortillas are
sick, but the stuff on top? Nyeh — the tongue is delicately
moist, but the taste skews offal-funky; curds of fat stud the
cabeza. The pork in the pastor is on a different plane
entirely: agreeably shreddy, and with deft, clove-dominant spicing.
Salty.

Extra cookie: Tacos come in Styro butchers’ trays —
Earth destroying, but cute.

The takeaway: Nicely done pastor, in a parking lot
with a whiff of Zen-like serenity.

El Ojo de Agua. Parking lot at Fruitvale Ave. and E. 13th
St.

Scene: A popular spot, no doubt as much for its prominent
location on car-choked Fruitvale north of the BART station than for the
food.

Comida: Lengua and cabeza are both fatty and
bland, under-trimmed and over-boiled, beneath a blanket of thick,
searing salsa verde. The pastor pork tastes like somebody
boiled the crap out of it, then attempted a retroactive sexing-up with
clove-spiked chile powder and a big dollop of watery guac.

Oh, hell no: Thin, flavorless white tortillas suck.

The takeaway: The food’s terminally waterlogged —
somebody throw it a lifeline.

Tacos el Novillo. Parking lot of Guadalajara restaurant, 1001
Fruitvale Ave (at San Leandro Blvd.).

Scene: Along the traffic-strafed corridor between the freeway
and International Boulevard, Novillo occupies a broad, shadeless
parking lot with zero tables — prepare to eat off your Hyundai’s
hood, or at the narrow aluminum counter that runs along the
lonchera itself.

Comida: Decent lengua; better-than-decent
cabeza (big chunks, frankly fatty and satisfyingly gelatinous).
A taco de tripa (small pork intestine, aka chitlins) is a trifle
greasy, though its shredded texture puts you in mind of carnitas.

Extra cookie: A single squirt-bottle salsa, but it’s a good
one, vinegary, and with flecks of charred tomato skin.

The takeaway: The ambience flunks, but tacos earn a solid
C.

El Rebozo. 3215 International Blvd. (near Fruitvale Ave.)

Scene: Okay, this isn’t a truck, but a propane plancha
set up on the sidewalk in front of a tiny juice and snack shop. Still,
with its little clot of enthusiastic patrons and unusual offerings, it
deserves honorary lonchera status.

Comida: Jalisco-style crisp-fried tacos
dorados, filled with either stiff refried beans or slushy mashed
potato, for a buck apiece. Load ’em up with shredded iceberg, grated
cheddar and Jack, tomato, onion, and a vinaigrette-like salsa of
pickled jalapeños.

The takeaway: Greasy but jovial.

Tacos los Michoacanos. Parking lot of Sabeh Auto, 3524
International Blvd. (near 35th Ave.)

Scene: The little truck is scuffed and adorned in a way that
charms, fronted with a big old mural of rancho life, which, like
the best farm fantasies, begins with a chesty chica in a strappy
top. A couple of gray, impressively scarred picnic tables facilitate
hanging out in the cramped, broken-down little lot.

Comida: Weekends you can get Michoacan-style menudo and
birria with handmade tortillas; the tacos are just as earthy and
full flavored, reflection of the folksy, balls-out cooking of Michoacan
state. Lengua and cabeza are both perfectly
carne-licious, but it’s their vinegar-spiked,
charred-tomato-skin-flecked guajillo-chile salsa that makes
these mouth burners among the best in the ‘hood.

Extra cookie: The mustard-yellow tortillas — coarse,
chewy, and gloriously warm tasting.

Oh, hell no: A taco al pastor smells as if the
meat is about ten minutes from going off.

The takeaway: Gutsy and gorgeous — but skip the
pork.

Taco Zamorano. Parking lot of Supermercado los Mexicanos,
International Blvd. at High St.

Scene: Allegedly the site of Oakland’s first taco truck, but
as loncheras go, plain white Zamorano has something of a
personality deficit; it anchors a sprawling, perennially car-choked lot
at one of the busiest corners in Fruitvale.

Comida: The finely shredded cabeza is nicely done,
dark tasting and richly beefy. The crumbly chorizo taco is salty, no
more than predictably greasy, and delivers a bracing little jab of
spices.

Extra cookie: Yellow-corn tortillas pack a delicious,
mineral-edged sweetness.

The takeaway: Misplaced your car in the lot? Seek consolation
here.

Tacos Guadalajara. Parking lot, International Blvd. at 44th
Ave.

Scene: Neatly painted, with stainless quilting as shiny as a
new ten-centavo coin; the nine-car lot is ringed with trees and
a narrow strip of lawn — soothing touches on a corner known to
get itchy with sex workers and their pimps.

Comida: Hefty tacos and, in addition to carrots and
jalapeños en escabeche, the taquero loads up your
plate with hunks of griddle-cooked onion. Best-tasting lengua on
the street — clearly, it’s been poached in well-salted water. But
the texture is fatty and curdle-y in places, sign of poor trimming. The
cabeza sweats oil, but it, too, has absorbed enough seasoning to
coax out every drop of beefy richness.

Extra cookie: Fried pork tripa — lower intestine
(chitlins) — are chewy, ever so slightly creamy, and masterfully
seasoned.

The takeaway: Mad flavor, shaky skills.

El Taco Zamorano #1. Parking lot next to Santo Coyote
restaurant, International Blvd. at 48th Ave.

Scene: The stainless-steel quilting is tarnished, but that
only lends a measure of seasoned credibility. According to the
Trib‘s Angela Woodall, this is Oakland’s original
lonchera (moved from High Street and International). No tables,
so be prepared for car-hood dining.

Comida: The lengua racks up three stars out of five
— big, reasonably tender cubes, without excessive fat or gristle.
The cabeza is better: simultaneously chewy and soft, though the
taste skews bland. Two squirt-bottle salsas: the verde is only
passing, but the rojo kills, with a blazed-cannabis whiff of
heavily toasted Mexican oregano.

Oh, hell no: The smell of piss haunts the little parking
lot.

The takeaway: Hold your nose, mijo — you could
do worse.

Tacos los Amigos. Parking lot, International Blvd. at 55th
Ave.

Scene: Not the prettiest lonchera on the strip; boasts
a funky picnic table and a few outsized Nixon-era patio chairs in
quinceañera pastels. The truck? At face level, a Plexi
window scarred and scratch-tagged, beneath a sign (complete with
grinning emoticon) that warns, unconvincingly, “Smile, you’re on
camera.”

Comida: Big cubes of lengua are just okay, and the
cabeza, which oozes grease, is decidedly sub-okay. But the
pastor? It drips oil, and the pork is overwhelmed by the dull,
bitter throb of stale spices. Camera or no camera, smiling is not an
option.

Oh, hell no: The menu board teases with birria tacos,
but even on a Saturday, the goat is a no-show. Judging from the
pastor, it may be just as well.

The takeaway: Pass, amigo.

Foothill Boulevard corridor

Tacos la Esmeralda. Parking lot of El Ranchito Market, 1534
23rd Ave. (at E. 16th St.)

Scene: The air can get funky from the less-than-pristine fry
oil in the nearby churro cart, and the quilted-stainless
lonchera, whose specialty is mariscos (seafood), has seen
better days. But its painted decorations belong to a balmier,
altogether more idyllic setting than this motor-oil-stained lot: a
beach, a boat, a floating octopus, and thick, headless shrimp.

Comida: The pastor is Sloppy-Joe slushy —
chopped pork is slightly stiff, but seasoned well. The real star here
isn’t tacos at all, but the tostada de ceviche de camaron y
aguacate: on a crisp-fried tortilla, bits of semi-stiff ceviche
shrimp in a hash of cucumber and tomato, with long slices of creamy
avocado. There’s the bite of chile, a puckery jolt of lime, and, well,
the sullen-looking churro lady and her toxic cloud of oil don’t seem to
matter.

The takeaway: The ceviche tostada? A three-buck bong hit of
beachy summer.

Tacos Alonzo. Parking lot of U & I Liquor and Market,
2730 Foothill Blvd. (at Mitchell St.)

Scene: A couple of stand-up tables clad in scratched Formica
butt up against the U & I sign; the truck has its own patina, but
from age and the weather.

Comida: Lengua? Perfectly respectable, in fine, tender
cubes. The pastor is pregnant with orange grease. Tripa
(chitlins) are in unusually thin slices, crunchy from frying, and with
characteristic creaminess; they sit on the tortilla in a flurry of
chopped tomato — it needs plenty of tomatillo salsa.

Extra cookie: The thin, salty, searing green salsa is
delicious.

The takeaway: Nothing special — unless you’re on a
tripa jag.

Tacos y Mariscos el Mazatlan. Parking lot of East Bay
Laundry, 2021 Foothill Blvd. (at Fruitvale Ave.)

Scene: Flyest lonchera in the neighborhood: shiny
quilting, crisp paint, and a lift-up bug screen at the order window
that actually gets used. And in Fruitvale terms, the setting at one of
the district’s most congested intersections is bucolic, including a
gravel strip and mini streetlamp to forestall thuggery after dark.

Comida: Skip the shaky taco de cabeza and
tough-textured shrimp tostada for the tacos dorados, a trio of
deep-fried, ground-beef-filled finger slickers. It’s the beef that
makes ’em worth the artery plaque: fried to a mass as crumbly as spent
coffee grounds, and salty, it’s radically unlike any lingering
Hamburger Helper memories of bulky, skillet-cooked ground chuck.

The takeaway: Not for everyday, but as a pre-sleep,
post-Patrón grease curative? Priceless.

Tamales Mi Lupita. Parking lot at 3340 Foothill Blvd. (near
34th Ave.)

Scene: Wedged between a market and Pupuseria Lupita, a
Salvadoran tamale, pupusa, and taco wagon with home-style
cocinera chops. Burly guys park prominent asses on the narrow
curb opposite the brightly painted lonchera, shoveling slaw-like
curtido with plastic forks. You can wait for what seems like
forever for the pupusas, but be patient, cabrón:
food this good takes time.

Comida: Earthy, rustic grilled tortillas hold homely,
cazuela-like fillings: choriso con papa (salty and
electric, perspiring orange oil), chicharrón (unctuous
stewed pork skin). The pupusas are toe-curlingly good, chewy,
leaking finely crisped oozings of queso — a pupusa de
calabasa contains a slick of cheese studded with green, delicately
vegetal cubes of zucchini-like squash.

Extra cookie: The squeeze-bottle salsa verde is a thin slurry
of stewed tomatillo, with a compost load of rough-chopped cilantro
— perfect foil for rich, salty taco fillings.

The takeaway: Taste the pueblito, baby.

El Centenario No. 2. Parking lot of Hot Boys Auto Detail,
1911 38th Ave. (at Foothill Blvd.)

Scene: The detailing shop ensures plenty of man traffic
(though, despite the name, not all of ’em are hot, believe me) to this
lonchera with dull stainless quilting.

Comida: The taquero here is a whiz with carnes
— think succulent lengua with a hint of delicacy in the
taste. The cabeza is just as succulent — yeah, there’s a
small cluster of spongy fat, but it only adds to the lushness.
Moderately spiced pastor has nicely hyped acidity, and the pork
has a genial nubbly texture.

The takeaway: Guys, cars, and meat — savor the
testosterone.

Taqueria el Güero. Parking lot of All Green Produce,
4095 Foothill Blvd. (at 41st Ave.)

Scene: Kind of a family thing going on, thanks to its
proximity to a laundromat and the All Green market, plenty of
abuelas treating their niños to tortas and bags of
chips. The lonchera has an ice-cream-truck vibe, with white
paint and roll-down striped-canvas awning.

Comida: Just say no to tacos — the tongue has a urine-y
aftertaste, and the flabby cabeza has an emasculated,
steam-table texture. If you’ve gotta eat something, try a torta.
Michoacan-style carnitas have a pork roast quality (quite
different from the shredded, crispy carnitas of Jalisco). The roll is
oiled and toasted like garlic bread, stuffed with shredded cabbage and
a bizarre slather of blended yellow mustard and Mexican
crema.

The takeaway: Freaky and familiar.

Tacos el Pollo. Parking lot of the Chevron station, 4265 High
St. (at Foothill Blvd.)

Scene: The shiny-bright lonchera sports a whack
cartoon chicken. Saturdays, workers from the nearby carwash clomp over
in rubber boots for hefty platefuls.

Comida: The taco al pastor? Eek — long, dry
strips of pork, mired in a sugary, sweet-sour pineapple sauce. You
figure the chicken should be fierce. Wrong: Stewed in
cumin-spiked red sauce, the pieces are stiff and desiccated, unredeemed
by the green salsa on top.

The takeaway: Sorry guys — this stuff needs serious
professional detailing.

John Birdsall blogs at Birdman Eating.