I witnessed a stellar bit of one-
penny opera and graft the other day in a
taqueria on Lake Street.

See, it was twilight, and raining. Out the
window, in the dark sky, the old Sears tower
loomed with all its melancholy weight and
gothic height. Inside the taqueria, Baby
considered the glory days of tacos, which
are now upon us. The only other folks in the
joint were a gaunt, tall, gazellelike man
lurking by the trash cans and an agitated
man in a nice wool suit--one of those suits
with large gold buttons, the kind yacht
captains wear. It was double-breasted, and
the rain frosted the outside of it in a jaunty
way; he looked for all the world as if he had
just leapt off something with a teak deck. Or
he would have looked that way, if only he
hadn't been clutching a thin grocery bag
holding a rain-wet box of Kentucky Fried
Chicken.

As he stood behind me in line, he took out
his wallet, which held at least $500 in
twenties. While I took my numero and
awaited my tacos, the yachtsman explained
his plight to the guy behind the counter.
Desperately, he wished to use the taqueria's
phone. No, said the taco guy. Yes. No. Yes.
Look, explained the yachtsman, you'll make
a lot of money if you let me use the phone,
I'll give you $5. The yachtsman took out the
five and waved it around.

Needless to say, that changed things. Give
me the $5 first, said the taco guy. No, I'll give
you $1, said the yachtsman, changing his
mind, and taking out a dollar to wave
around. One now, and $5 later. The five and
the one flashed. Voices were raised. Both
the gazellelike man and I watched very
closely. I was musing on the way cell
phones have changed the world, and I was
noting that until this resolved there would be
no tacos for Baby.

Suddenly, the chicken entered the equation.

I don't know why, but the chicken was now
being shoved back and forth between the
taco guy and the yachtsman. As is usual
when wet fried chicken is at issue, yelling
ensued. The yachtsman took his chicken
and stalked back out into the rain, but not
before suggesting unusual uses that the
taco guy might find for his close female
relatives.

With that, the gazellelike man sought to
make peace, and rushing to the door,
recalled the yachtsman to the taqueria. He
asked the yachtsman something I couldn't
hear, and the yachtsman took out his $1 bill,
and his $5, and waved them around,
recounting the argument for the gazellelike
man, who seemed to assure the yachtsman
that he could make the taco guy come
around.

The gazellelike man took the bills. He
approached the taco counter. Oddly, he
seized hold of a duplicate printout that had
spooled out of a little receipt printer on the
taqueria counter. He brought the printout
over to the yachtsman, and, with the
theatrical display of a magician, held the
printout out in front of his head, and
crumpled it into a ball.

He showed the ball to all of us. The paper
ball, he seemed to say. He balanced it on
the back of his hand, and then flipped his
hand over, balancing it on the palm of his
hand, as if he would close up his hand and
open it again to reveal a dove. He threw the
paper ball high in the air, and, as it climbed
toward the ceiling, as it turned and twirled,
he left.

Lake Street, regulated by the pattern of
stoplights, was momentarily clear, and the
gazellelike man loped gracefully across the
rain-wet street, with the long-legged, easy
gait of a natural athlete. As we watched, a
burst of cars appeared, their headlights
tracing glittering arcs in the rain. As the cars
came, the gazellelike man turned into a
misty alley, vanishing. We watched the
paper ball on the floor.

Later, I got my tacos. The yachtsman
returned to the ever-chilling rain. The taco
guy cackled with glee.

Why do I tell you this? Is it merely to brag
about the homemade horchata I got that
evening, which was thick and full of just-
grated cinnamon? Is it because I am trying
to foment even greater divisions between
taco guys and yachtsmen? Is it because I
am on the payroll of the cell phone cartels?
Perhaps. But more importantly, I want you to
know that all over Lake Street there are now
tacos worth committing petty crimes for.
Clearly, the gazellelike man knew that six
bucks was the only thing separating him
from some of the best Mexican food
Minnesota has ever seen.

Personally, I have spent the last four months
trying to find the best, the definitively best,
reliably best tacos on East Lake Street, in
that sweet and spicy corridor that stretches
between I-35 and Hiawatha. I tried and
failed. It is impossible: Great taquerias on
Lake Street have lately made up their minds
to come and go as quickly as wildflowers.
However, I can tell you that, as I type this in
the last bit of October 2004, each of the
following places is a hall-of-fame favorite, for
the following reasons.

Taqueria La Hacienda: If you only
veer from your regular rut one time this year,
veer to Taqueria La Hacienda. This light-
filled, high-ceilinged, tangerine-tinted little
restaurant just off the highway in that weird
building with the outdoor chandelier
specializes in the street foods of Mexico
City, and especially in catastrophically
terrific "tortas." At La Hacienda these aren't
just sandwiches, these are hot, griddled,
baroquely filled sandwiches the size of
footballs. Eating one is kind of like getting hit
by a wonderful, wonderful bus. (Most cost
$5.96; the place is open till 11:00 p.m. every
day, and until 3:00 a.m. on Fridays and
Saturdays.)

The al pastor is the must-order: You see it
the second you walk in the door; it's that
psychedelic orange spit of spiced,
barbecued pork that's topped with a
pineapple core and spins like a gyro cone.
(Legend says that this style of al pastor
evolved when Lebanese immigrants settled
in Mexico City and Puebla, Mexico.) Order it
any kind of way and you'll revel in the sweet,
rich, spicy purity of the thing. It's everything
you like about meaty baby back ribs, given a
little tart spice.

However, if you order the al pastor alambres
you may never recover: For this, they take
the spicy meat and put it on the griddle with
onion, bacon--yes, I said bacon--and green
and red peppers, and fry the whole thing
until it's a roasty lace of barbecue and
bacon. Then they throw cheese on it--
heavens to murgatroid. If the al pastor is like
getting hit by a wonderful bus, the al pastor
alambre is like getting hit by a wonderful
bulldozer. This is the best thing to happen to
the after-bar experience since the invention
of the remote control.

José's Mexican Foods: I've
been to José's at least half a dozen
times, and feel I have only begun to scratch
the surface of the wonderful cooking here.
José's is the least typical of all the
Lake Street taco joints. It's got a sweet,
homey, rural, small-town feel--it reminds me
of an out-state, farm-country café.
Actually, it feels more Zumbrota than
Minneapolis, if you know what I mean. This
vibe might come from the way the large
room is filled with widely spaced
secondhand kitchen tables draped with
cheerful oilcloth toppers, or it might come
from the way everything that issues from the
kitchen here is gorgeously home-style and
hand-done.

I've had tamales ($1.50) here that were as
light and loose as matzo balls, the corn meal
so buoyant it barely held together around
the fillings. Each bite contrasts the rich and
fluffy tamale outside with the vibrantly spiced
fillings. I've had a lovely tomatillo chicken
tamale, the citrus pop of the tomatillos
energetic against the broth-cooked sheets of
chicken meat, and a feisty cheese-chorizo
one, in which the corn sheltered fiercely
spicy, colorful layers of chewy cheese and
finely ground sausage.

The tacos at José's are lovely. I
especially like their al pastor, in which the
barbecued pork comes with itsy-bitsy
squares of pineapple, which adds a certain
festive air and brightness of flavor. I also
love their tinga, here chicken stewed with
well-grilled onions in a not-too-spicy but
very flavorful chipotle tomato sauce. Oh, I
almost forgot the fried chorizo and egg plate!
And the savory picadillo taco filling! Well,
suffice it to say that José's has a
solid dozen options to fill your taco, and I've
never had anything that was less than
excellent. (Tacos here are $1.39 Mexican-
style, or you can add 11 cents and have
them American-style with cheese, sour
cream, tomato, and lettuce.)

I did once have a bowl of pozole ($4.99) that
almost made me cry: The broth was that kind
of thick, flavorful, dense but clear joy that
comes from a day simmering on the stove.
This broth was loaded with pulled chicken
meat and tender bits of chopped-up pork
shoulder, and every time I sank a
soupspoon into the bowl, bits of pork and
soft, perfectly resilient islands of hominy
jumped into the bowl of the spoon. Every
bite was like being well cared for by your
new Mexican mom. If you've felt lately like
no one cares about you, José's
pozole begs to differ.

Carne Asada: The most
restaurantlike of the Lake Street taquerias,
Carne Asada is a newly built spot on the
corner of Chicago and Lake that is filled with
attractive Mexican tile work and industrial-
architectural copper and steel accents. They
serve beer; they have nice new wooden
chairs and tables. They also have some of
the best horchata on Lake street--
homemade, thick, rich with rice and freshly
grated cinnamon.

As you might expect, the carne asada is the
specialty here, and the stuff is addictive.
Imagine everything you like about a
hamburger that came off a perfect grill--the
char, the well-fried onions, the savor, the
smell you can bite into. Now imagine it in the
form of steak. That's the carne asada here,
and brother, it's good. The pierna, thinly
sliced pork stewed in a savory tomato-chile
sauce, is also good.

Whatever you get, though, I highly
recommend--no, strike that. Whatever you
get, I violently, I wildly, and I almost
hysterically recommend that you get your
topping on one of the homemade, griddled-
while-you-watch masa forms that Carne
Asada specializes in, be it gordita, sope,
itacates, tlacoyos, or dobladas. For any of
these a Carne Asada cook will take a kind of
half-cooked corn pancake and sear it until
it's crisp and crackling without, and steamy
and creamy inside. If you get the combo
platter number three ($6.95), you can get a
gordita, a doblada, and a sope, and then
fight it out with yourself over which version is
your favorite.

La Mexicana: Across the street from
Mercado Central, in that big, terra-cotta
painted building that used to hold the
antique mall, is now a huge Mexican
grocery store that I think is probably
currently the best Mexican grocery in
Minneapolis. It's got three great qualities:
One, the dazzling butcher shop, full of
everything you need to cook real Mexican,
or, for that matter, real French or Spanish,
food: pork in a hundred forms, pre-chilied
steaks, head-on blue shrimp, pork feet, skin,
blood. If you have ever thought about trying
your hand at pâté or cassoulet,
put La Mexicana on your short list.

Two, La Mexicana has a snack stand right
inside the front door that is ideal for picking
up a quick addition to dinner: Quarts of fruit
salad ($4) which they will garnish with chile
powder and freshly squeezed limes, hot
tamales ($2), and sometimes cups of hot
corn called elotes. These elotes are great--
they grill corn on the cob, cut it off, toss it
with leaves from a fresh, lemony herb called
epazote, and, when you order it, ladle it into
a cup for you, squeeze fresh lime juice over
it, add grated cheese and, if you want,
mayonnaise. Rich, sour, sweet, savory--it's
everything you like about au gratin potatoes,
in another culture's vernacular.

Finally, the last reason to love La Mexicana
is that, toward the back of the store, there is
a little cafeteria counter that serves some
great grub. The first thing to know about the
counter at La Mexicana is that there is
sometimes a gigantic glass jug on the main
counter full of agua fresca. Order whatever
is in it. Sometimes it might be a juice made
with watermelon purée, sometimes
it's homemade jamaica, a light, tart kind of
hibiscus tea. It's always good. Ask about the
Oaxacan tamales (pronounced "hwa-
hocken," or, in Spanish, oaxaqueño,
generally, "hwa-keenyo"), in which sections
of pork rib are wrapped with masa and a
spicy chile sauce inside giant banana
leaves and steamed until they're as tender
as jelly--eating one is like swimming in a
dream of a jungle.

One time at La Mexicana I had the tacos de
asada ($1.49), beef and onion griddled
together until they were as dark as coal and
as potent as thunder, and I thought they
might have been the best thing I had ever
tasted. However, I've been back since then,
and it hasn't been as good. I'll keep at it
though, because when chasing the dragon
comes with guaranteed quarts of fruit salad,
it just seems worth it.

Pineda: The first of the great Lake
Street stand-alone taquerias, Pineda
remains a treasure for anyone looking to eat
on the fly. It's certainly not the ambience that
does it--the place retains the uncomfortable
look of an abandoned Pizza Hut--it's the
food. Last time I was in, there were fully a
dozen different stews on offer for filling your
taco, torta, or burrito. I especially like the
chicken tinga for its smoky and complex,
almost mushroomy edge of vegetal dusk.
For a lark, though, I ordered something I
hadn't ever tried before, the alambre de res
($8.25). Holy buckets. They start with fajita
steak, red and green bell peppers, and
clumps of chorizo, just fry and fry and fry the
stuff until the peppers are charred, the
chorizo is crisp, and the steak is plump,
greasy, and delicious. Then they load it up
with cheese and serve it to you with fresh
slices of avocado, tomato, and lettuce,
alongside a pile of hot tortillas, beans, and
rice. Load up as many sliced radishes,
pickled jalapeños, onions, and piles
of cilantro as you can handle from the fresh
garnish bar and prepare to know what it
means to be full, and fully flabbergasted.

The only problem with Pineda is that they've
had too much success with the native
Minnesotan community, which means that
now the counter guys generally assume that
if you don't speak real Spanish you probably
want your taco with cheese, sour cream,
lettuce, and tomato. So you gotta watch 'em.
I mean, nice work, Dara-of-two-years-ago!
Why don't you screw up somebody else's
tacos instead of your own? I mean, just
watch this paper ball here. Watch it very
carefully. I'll be right back.