Jonathan Gold’s review of Taco María that brought me to the restaurant in the first place, but I must admit, I had not fully read it when I parked my car in the lot of a Costa Mesa strip mall. I was heading to the last place he consecrated LA’s restaurant of the year before passing. A few words had stuck out – tacos, Costa Mesa, strip mall, great food… It seemed pretty straightforward. I parked and locked the car without bothering to raise the windows. I thought I would walk in, grab a few tacos to go, and eat them in my car on my way back to Silver Lake.
I had just spent the day in Laguna Beach, walking around Crystal Cove State Park and sitting by the beach. I lived in Montreal for the first 22 years of my life, interrupted only by brief stints in Hong Kong and Berlin, and graduate school was my first time truly living abroad. While I had been fortunate enough to travel all over, there is an important difference between visiting a new city and starting over there. Both my time in Hong Kong and Berlin had been formative, and my relationship with food had been a huge part of it.
It’s in Hong Kong that I learned to be comfortable sitting alone in a restaurant. I was 18, working in a law firm, and hadn’t really made friends. For a young adult living through social validation, it was a steep learning curve. The first time I sat down for a meal by myself was a Sunday. The dim sum restaurant had three floors, each filled with communal tables. The staff walked around with carts heaped with bamboo baskets filled with steaming dumplings. I plunked down at an empty seat and grabbed a few baskets, not knowing what was inside but too shy to ask.
As I unknowingly bit into a piping hot soup dumpling, the liquid squirted over the front of my shirt. I was mortified, and the Cantonese gentleman sitting in front of me pulled out his phone to take a picture. Despite the embarrassment, I had to admit – it was the best dumpling I’d ever had. I grew progressively accustomed to eating alone in public, trading minor embarrassments for local delicacies: the aromatic broth of a great noodle soup, the decadence of a French toast doused in condensed milk, the juxtaposition of milk tea and tapioca bubbles. Eating taught me to be adventurous, independent and self-assured. I took up the same habit in Berlin when I was 20, basing entire days of adventures around the restaurants I wanted to hit at meal times.
By the time I was 24 and headed to Taco María, it had become a habit. I had wanted to go to the beach that week-end anyways, but planned the excursion to this specific location with a dinnertime trip to Taco María in mind. I walked around the Costa Mesa strip mall searching somewhat vaguely for a taco stand, but instead saw a sleek glass door with the name of the restaurant etched across the surface.
I peeked inside: there were a few tables dressed with sleek silverware and candles, wait staff entirely in black, and a velvety, laid-back atmosphere. It was immediately recognizable: fine dining. Uh oh. I approached the hostess, and she met my request for “uhh… a few tacos to go?” with a perplexed look and raised eyebrows. She proceeded to tell me about their set dinner menu, and then on with the inevitable question: “Just you, or will someone else be joining your party?”
I hesitated. Tables were filling up in the restaurant, families and couples dressed up for a special night sitting down to share a meal. Ironically, the table she was gesturing towards was smack in the middle of the restaurant. Did I really want to do that to myself on a Saturday night? At the same time, the smell of grilled meat was rising in the air, pans beginning to sizzle in the open-plan kitchen. I turned to her: “Set menu is fine. Yes, just me.” I had done this often, but practice did nothing to lessen the strength of the particular mix of feelings that hit me every time I sat down to eat alone.
I like to put on an air of confidence and strength, but there is something very humbling about sitting down alone in a crowded restaurant. In times like these, I have practiced not relying on my phone as a crutch. I pulled out a book. I noticed people glancing over my way, and my brain started racing. “I wonder what they’re thinking. Do they think I’m a loser? Are they pitying me?” There was a bravado I could affect in Hong Kong and Berlin. There was a pride in being a young explorer setting out to explore the local cuisine without needing to rally friends.
But in LA I’m home, a woman in her mid-twenties having a four-course meal alone on a weekend. A lump formed in my throat. I’m still adventurous, but vulnerability has replaced bravado. I still have this desire to explore the culinary offerings of a new city. But when I sit down, unfold the napkin in my lap and look up, all I see are the people I was too shy to ask, the ones that said no, and my loved ones across the country. It always feels like a mental parade of faces that bring up existential questions – why did she never reply to my text? What am I doing so far from everyone I love? Why do I find it easy to be sociable but difficult to make friends?
The Taco María waitress interrupted my thoughts with a small bowl of handmade Cheetos. They were accompanied by a light, creamy emulsion which offset their crunch and saltiness. I’m not a big fan of fried food, but sampled it anyways. Next was an enfrijolada, in which bean purée, caramelized onions and queso fresco were folded into a blue corn tortilla. The star of the show was the tortilla – I had never had anything like it. Chewy, warm, flavorful – the only way I could describe it is elevated.
The next two courses were seafood-based. One was a scallop au gratin bathing in a chili oil, and the other, striped bass with seasonal veggies. They were both delicate, the chili complimenting the cheese and the bitter rapini serving as a foil for the melt-in-your-mouth fish, but I must admit I was so fixated on the last course that they barely registered.
I knew the last course was tacos, and that with it would come the incredible tortillas. The plate was laid down in front of me. Rare skirt steak with a sauce that was adjacent in taste and consistency to molasses. Sides of homemade guacamole and more of that smoky chili oil. Cilantro sprinkled over it all and of course, the purple tortillas wrapped up in a cloth. Their texture was so soft and cloud-like that I had to resist the urge of putting it against my cheek. Scooping a little bit of every element on the tortilla, I folded it and closed my eyes to take a bite. The fatty, creamy, sweet and salty textures and flavors combined into one of the best bites of my life. The three previous courses were so filling that I struggled to finish the tacos, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave even a crumb of tortilla behind.
Later in the week, as I was raving to anyone who would listen about chef Carlos Salgado’s Taco María, a friend asked who had gone with. “Nobody,” I shrugged. Sharing a meal with people you love is one of the greatest pleasures – but have you ever tried keeping it all to yourself? Mm. Delicious.