Tacos Baja Ensenada/La Casita Mexicana

Tacos Baja in East Los Angeles is for taco lovers who like their tacos without all that extra gunfire. In fact, if I were an advertising executive, the tag line for this place might be: “Great tacos without the fuss of bullets flying past your ears!” or “Good food—and no, your taco money does not fund the drug cartels!” Well, now you know why I am not an ad exec. But the point should be clear: crossing the border to the south these days can be a trifle scary. The difference in the tourist population in Mexico from the time I was there in 2003 and the last time I was there, 2008, was jaw-dropping. Tijuana these days reminds me of a movie set: a bunch of workers milling about these enormous bell and whistle bars and eateries—But who’s kidding whom? No one’s coming. These joints are all props. The word around town is that tourists just don’t like gun battles outside Pap’s and Beer. Go figure.
Still, there’s nothing, and I mean nothing, like a taco constructed in Tijuana. The carne asada is tastier, the onions sharper, the chile more biting. This is comfort food. I know guys who, after getting dumped, come to drown their sorrows over a fistful of carne asada tacos and two (or three) cold Pacificos. But some of us like to venture farther south to the beach. Who can beat an Ensenada fish taco? Few can but Tacos Baja comes really close. Now this place on Whittier Boulevard is not exactly a secret and it sits smack in the mecca of great Mexican places. Oh, how I hate lines and like Pink’s and Phillipe, you will have to wait. But unlike Pink’s the hype to this place has a payoff: the food is good. Get the fish tacos: a tortilla with a delicate piece of cod plied with cream, salsa, and cabbage. I eat and I am taken back to that beach in Mexico, the radio humming in my ear, the smell of saltwater, the tranquility only interrupted by the tastes and textures of the fish taco. This is a Mexico that seems distant but always in reach through the permanence of memory. And then the reality sets in: I'm in East LA and the fat, bald guy with the wet spot under his arms is gesturing for me to give up my seat for him and his two brats. Ah, but it beats dodging the bullets!
La Casita Mexicana
I remember as a child the first time I ate mole. It looked like motor oil and it tasted like what I imagined an old leather shoe marinated in turpentine would taste like. Oh no! La Casita Mexicana in the city of Bell specializes in moles. No way, I’m not touching mole. Sorry. But then I recall my childhood aversion to tongue and mayonnaise and how I boldly went forth and ordered veal tongue salad at Cut. And nearly spit it out. Childhood dislikes and phobias are real, I decided. Well, I’ll play it by ear at La Casita. I sit at the table and the server welcomes me with “chips and salsa.” Only these are homemade chips, perfectly executed, a deep-fried masterpiece in my mouth. And the salsa? Two types of mole: red and green. I dip a chip cautiously. It is wonderful. And then I dunk a chip like a man on a mission. I can only describe it this way: it’s like I took my tongue on a trip to Disneyland. We went on all the rides, we saw all the attractions, and we stopped at every candy store along the way. So, uh, yeah, it was good. My server asked me what I wanted to eat. I sat there dumbfounded. You mean, I didn’t just now eat? That wasn’t my meal? In my messed up Spanish I ordered flautas. Oh, and can you please put extra mole on the flautas, Ms. Server? After all, childhood phobias are so silly.