The sun long set; the sky is dark, but buildings are aglow. I wander away from the hostel down the streets of Durango. I pass wondrous cathedrals towering overhead and row after row of storefront filled with holiday cheer. I can’t believe it is almost Christmas.
A bicycle on a building catches my attention. It’s a restaurant. I enter and sit down. From the menu, I choose three tacos at random: asada, arrechera, and Lengua. I have no idea what I am about to eat.
Tortilla chips and a cuatro of condiments in ceramic bowls are placed before me. The tacos arrive shortly after. Three miniature tortillas the size of a baseballs each topped with meat. I believe all to be beef. Lengua may be liver.
To these plain tacos I add the contents of the ceramic bowls. Diced onion with cilantro. Rojos with onion (pickled jalapeno and carrot). And salsa. Lots of salsa in many varieties. From experiments with chips, I found verde to be too spicy. Rojo and tomate are just right.
Now, totally overloaded and resembling an odd pizza more than the folded taco it should, I lift one to my mouth. Juices run down my hand then my face as I devour this taco that is unlike any I’ve had in the US. The one I believe to be liver is my favorite. The meat is tender and blends in my mouth with the tastes of toppings. I love Mexican food.