I've been here a number of times over the past few years. The most recent was last week, and as far as I can tell it hasn't really changed much. Like any good taco truck, Tacos Morelos features both diversity of selection and generous hours. My go-to varieties are the suadero, lengua, enchilada and the infrequently-seen barbacoa, but the standout has to be the cecina, which manages to be just salty enough, and shockingly tender, a hard trick to pull off. In a world where trendy bars come and go, ever-increasing rents push out old neighborhood stalwarts, and people insist on using the word "farm" to describe eggs, it's comforting to know that dudes at the Tacos Morelos truck keep on paddling...
Anyway, this place is also notable for bearing witness to that one time I almost fought a guy who looked like Action Bronson.
The year was 2011. At some point, and as so often happens in life, I found myself standing in line, at Tacos Morelos, behind a fat white guy making a scene in front of a couple of bemused minorities. The reason: the man wanted more green sauce for his takeout plate of carne asada, but they wouldn't give it to him for free. An extra quarter doesn't seem like an onerous financial burden, but sadly, homeboy wasn't having any of it. And so, in a fitting microcosm of America, the morbidly obese white guy simply reached over and appropriated himself some green sauce that he wasn't ever going to pay for, drizzling embarrassing quantities onto his already copious meal. The proprietors were not amused.
In perhaps a rare display of hunger-fueled Sino-Mexican solidarity, I loudly commented that the portly gentleman might leave some of the condiment for the rest of us. He whipped around and stepped to me, eyes bulging, neck strained, voice hoarse and growling threats with that typical Anglo-Saxon machismo. For some reason I was carrying an umbrella at the time so held it in front of me, matador style. The tension mounted. Past battles flashed before my eyes: David and Goliath, the Red Viper and the Mountain That Rides. More barbed words were exchanged. I had picked my hill to die on, and it was at the corner of 2nd and Ave A, in the name of some bomb-ass salted beef.
The moment of truth arrived...and then the guy standing behind us loudly declared that he was recording the entire encounter on his phone. We backed down. Bronson Jr stalked away with his family sized taco order, still shit-talking. I had a laugh at narrowly avoiding death, and ordered some goat and beef tongue. And that, my friends, is my Tacos Morelos story. read more