From the islands of the Philippines and the Caribbean to almost all of the Americas, the sun never set on the Spanish Empire — but what does that mean for Madrid?
The cuisine in the Spanish capital has been largely influenced by its ancient trade routes and the many countries touched by the conquistadores. The popularity of Latin food, specifically, is undeniable, with Nikkei (Japanese-Peruvian fusion) and Mexican cuisines leading the way. A good example is the Mexican eatery, Takos Al Pastor, which sits betweeen Sol and Gran Vía on Calle de la Salud. For many diners, it is a date with gastronomic destiny.
This taco sanctuary is frequently praised highly on review sites. Both residents and visitors laud the food’s quality and affordability, as seen by its 4.5 out of 5 TripAdvisor rating and more than 1,000 reviews. Its status as a top destination for a real Mexican taco experience in Madrid is further cemented by social media buzz.
The ever-popular food stop blurs the lines between a nicely decorated eatery and a simple, fast-paced, Margarita-and-Modelo-serving taco restaurant. You might see this on their list of eateries that do not “break the bank.” As you walk in — that is, if you can dodge the line that wraps around the block — you are met with an unused, decorative bar, manned only by a collection of Dia de los Muertos-style skeleton mannequins.
But as you progress down a few stairs, the adventure begins, and when you look at the menu, the pressure mounts like you’re taking a penalty kick in the Champions League final, and it’s a make-or-break decision.
The wait to order will be exasperating to the hungry visitor: The man at the register will inevitably ask the person in front of you, “¿Qué quieres?” at which point said customer will instantly freeze. This is the moment when the customer will first begin to think about what they want to order, and you will wonder why they didn’t look at the menu in front of them, or the one posted on the wall a few paces back, while the smell of perfectly seasoned, roasted meat, melted cheese, and the sound of Mexican music env
elopes your senses. What’s taking this customer so long to order? Are they distracted by everyone else’s conversation, mostly in Spanish, some in English, and surprisingly, a lot of Russian? At this point, the voice of the guy at the register apparently fades in — “¿Hola? ¿Hola? ¿Qué quieres?” — and purely out of panic, the customer, perhaps an American study abroad from Wisconsin just looking for a good taco that isn’t Tiki, says: “Lo siento no habla Español.” The man at the registrar will sigh and tap the counter twice. “Un momento, llamo a mi compañero,” he will say and eventually swap out for someone else, and you, finally, get to order. Meanwhile the Wisconsin native — or whoever the indecisive customer in front of you turns out to be — will end up with a receipt. The register worker will tell him, “Don’t lose this or no food,” so he will grip it like a climber clinging onto a rock with his safety gear disconnected.
On a recent visit, that indecisive customer in front of me was, in fact, a study abroad student from Wisconsin, and I enjoyed watching him indulge in the the Tako al Pastor experience for what appeared to be the first time. He sat in front of me, alone in the middle of the restaurant, watching the plates of tacos coming out of the kitchen one after the other, all so colorful, and all so fragrant. Would he think queueing up for 30+ minutes was worth it? He looked around and must have seen people dousing their tacos with limes, a red sauce, and a green sauce because he made the decision to drop a dollop of the green sauce behind the knuckle of his index finger. Then he sucked on the back of his hand and tasted it. Rookie mistake. The green is the spicier of the two options, and since he did not order a drink with his tacos, he must have had to sit and suffer with the heat.
Eventually, his tacos arrived at the table. A server took his receipt, marked it with a pen, and hit him with a fadeaway “Buen provecho.” For a short distance, his plate looked like a Pollock painting, with splashes of random colors in different places, and a slight inference of order. He ate each taco with what appeared to be excitement, joy, ecstasy. As he wiped his mouth after the last bite of his Al Pastor Tacos, he uttered to himself under his breath, ever so slightly more than a whisper, “These are the best damn tacos I have ever had.”
And, once my plate arrived, I agreed.
