Posted by Corey Mintz in restaurant review, south american on June 8, 2007 at 7:48 am

Tacos El Asador
690 Bloor Street West
416-538-9747
Lunch with all taxes, tip and dos Coronas: $30

I met my friend Jason for lunch ostensibly to talk about my girlfriend and I splitting up. All week I’d felt terrible and it was affecting my appetite. The case of gorgeous, yellow mangos in my fridge sat barely half-eaten (hello mango jam). I was only sleeping on my half of the bed. But talk quickly turned to comics and movies and our basic understanding of Spanish (it turns out that Bumblebee Man is not an accredited Spanish language teacher) resulted in my eating tripe for the first time in a decade.

Tacos El Asador, a Salvadorian restaurant made up of six picnic tables in the middle of Koreatown, pumps out fresh, hand-made tacos, burritos, tamales, and pupusas to a loyal clientèle of Annex-westers. A hockey-themed gumball machine takes up space that could fit a much-needed stand-up a/c unit. A friend asked me not to hype up his favourite take-out place because he doesn’t need it getting any busier. It was packed when we ate there but they managed to take care of us in a languid sort of way. What do we expect when there is no table service (or call waiting or answering machine)?

Many people would say that it’s an innocent mistake to assume pancita is Spanish for pancetta, the soft underbelly of the pig, a.k.a. bacon. That’s what I thought when I ordered the pancita pozole ($7.95), a steaming bowl of peppery broth, murky with fat glistening on top. It came with a few soft, warm tortillas, lime, and a cup of bright tomatillo salsa large and spicy enough to accommodate a spring break’s worth of chili-eating dares.

Legend has it that the natives of Mexico accommodated the visiting conquistadors’ delicate palates by replacing the traditional human flesh in pozole with pork. They could have saved themselves a heap of trouble by googling conquistadors.

The first spoonful of soup was a little disappointing. It seemed a little under-seasoned and flatly in need of some acidity. I actually whined about this a little snootily until Jason pointed out that it came with lime on the plate. The lime provided turned out to be the skeleton key to unlocking the pozole’s hidden depth of flavour. The soup was up on its feet with a full range of smoky porkosity (it’s a word, look it up). A wiggly strip of what looked like peameal bacon climbed into my spoon. There was no meatiness to it. It was a bit more like soft calamari. So I dipped my spoon in to fish out another sample of pancita and a second lump, this one square and sporting telltale orange-gill-like waves like a cross-section of Aquaman’s underwear. And it dawned on me that I’ve just eaten tripe. I could not have been more freaked out if I’d eaten Rosemary’s Baby. But having gone through that door there was no turning back. No disrespect to sweetbreads, or guanciale, or monkfish liver, but eating tripe is the “going all the way” of gastronomy. I could’ve used our safety word, put down my spoon, told Jason I felt uncomfortable, and gone home to shower. But the brief invasiveness of being violated by this piece of a pig’s stomach was overcome by the feeling, uncomfortable at first to admit, that I liked it. It was soft, its connective tissues perfectly broken down by the braising process, it’s essence blended into the soup. We happily slurped and gnawed down the rest of it with adventurous pride.

The sweet potato pupusa ($2.50) was a little bland but that’s what the extra-strength salsa was for. And the mouthful of starch on starch was a life preserver from the deep end of tripe soup. A burrito ($3.96, available with chicken, veg, beef, pulled pork, or chorizo) came bursting with grilled vegetables, and soft, pulled pork. A little difficult to split in two with the plastic cutlery provided but it stayed tightly wound out of its wax paper wrap. That’s super-important. I can’t deal with a burrito that wants to spill its guts after one bite. Nachos ($5.50) swarm with avocado, onions, lettuce, cow’s milk feta, and refried beans. The house guacamole is served chunky with corn chips.

Time seemed to distend between the Coronas and the salsa slathered over soft shell white corn tacos double wrapped and filled with not quite enough chorizo. But there’s never been enough chorizo for me anywhere, anytime. Sweat began to bead up on my forehead. Not so much from the spiciness but the stifling air of the little room combined with the saturation of my tummy. Steam poured out of tamales’ ($2.75) banana leaf wrapping. The firm corn meal dough inside secreted strips of moist chicken. The last thing I remember was dredging spoonfuls of it through the salsa.

Corn and pork-fueled cooking, it turns out, is a heartbreak antidote. When we rolled out of that little Central American sweatbox I felt 37.5% better. I still need the company of good friends, steady doses of my “get over it” iTunes playlist, and ice cream. But a few more tamales wouldn’t hurt. And ice cream. Did I say ice cream?

Addendum
Porkosity is not a word. Let’s pretend it is.