Mucho mahalo to the So-Called Expert
for the guest post True Burrito Tales
. He has graciously allowed me to re-post.True Burrito Tales
'gets' the emotional connection of returning to the place you are from
, as opposed to your office, or to Napa, Disneyland or Cincinnati for your next visit. Japanese is perhaps the best way to explain this. The Japanese language has a specific verb for returning to the place you are from (帰る, かえる, kaeru). There are other completely distinct emotion-neutral verbs for returning to the office or returning library books.
You can go to a lot of places in this world, but you can only be from one place, and I’m from the east side of L.A. Though I’ve lived in the Bay Area for more than twenty years, there are still a few things I miss about my hometown. The mild winters. The crazy profusion of FM radio stations. But above all, the L.A. burrito.
With all due respect to San Francisco’s celebrated Mission burrito, let me be frank: it is not a real burrito. Real burritos are not packed full of rice like a Chinese freighter. Real burritos contain neither sour cream nor guacamole. They are made with lard-infused refritos, not whole beans and certainly not black beans. And under no circumstances are they wrapped in anything other than a large white flour tortilla. If it’s some weird color, like red or green, it is most certainly not a burrito.
Many world travelers conclude that the burrito, due to its widespread unavailability south of the border, is one of those made-up faux-Mex dishes like taco salad. Nothing could be further from the truth. The burrito was a regional invention, native to a part of Mexico that was ceded to the Yankees in the 1840s: Alta California. Some nameless rancho cook decided to make a few oversized flour tortillas for wrapping up the leftovers, and an important culinary innovation was born, right up there with the sandwich on the short list of wildly successful workman’s lunches.
On a recent trip south, I paid a visit to Manny’s El Loco
in East L.A. to reacquaint myself with the Real Thing. I was not disappointed. Thoroughly and unashamedly old-school, Manny’s has changed very little since I used to go there in the 1970s as a long-haired punk. Same orange-plastic decor, same clientele of working-class Chicanos and the occasional Anglo or Asian down from neighboring Monterey Park. The few menu changes in evidence seem to be half-hearted nods to “healthy” eating: they’ve added a turkey wrap and something called a Santa Fe salad, and deleted the pastrami quesadilla, one of those freaky “only in LA” things that have now gone the way of the Chinese Kosher Burrito.
The king of Manny’s menu is and always has been the El Loco Burrito: beans, cheese, a chile relleno, steak picado, and salsa. It’s big, it’s messy, and it’s God-knows-how-many-calories. This is the burrito against which all others must be judged.
A great burrito is a symphony of flavors, and one false note can ruin the whole effect. At Manny’s there are no false notes
. The tortilla is same-day fresh. the beans are runny, lardy, and cooked for days; almost a soup. The steak picado is likewise cooked down for savory goodness: round steak, onions, chiles, and tomatoes. There is no shortage of cheese or green sauce, made with hot peppers and tiny flecks of avocado. And at the heart of this beast, robed in deliciousness, is the mighty chile relleno, a study in contrasting textures and flavors: the chewy crispness of the fried batter, the sweet snap of the fresh Anaheim chile, and the gooey river of hot melted cheese inside.
Don’t get me wrong: there are some other great places nearby. El Tepeyac
, for instance, is another classic joint, with an even bigger and gnarlier burrito called the Manuel’s Special. But El Loco remains my personal favorite, and the one I think of every time I settle for a riced-up, foil-wrapped Mission “burrito.” Manny’s
is located just off Atlantic Blvd on Pomona Street, a block south of the 60. Si mon!
Mahalo to My So-Called Expert. It may not have mac salad, but burritos just may be the LA plate lunch.