Ruth Tobias

Sure, it’s a mess, not least for being to-go in this case, but that’s what’s so great about this breakfast dish from El Paraiso. Machaca generally refers to dried, shredded beef that’s cooked so it’s no longer dry but still pleasantly chewy. Combining with scrambled eggs—as is, according to Wikipedia, popular with Chihuahuan miners—it’s served with refried beans, Spanish rice & handmade tortillas; the last time I had this much fun mixing everything up all together was when I was 8 & I’d let the ice cream melt so I could mash up the birthday cake into it & make soup.

When I moved here 4 years ago almost to the day, one of the 1st things I did was log on to Chowhound in search of the city’s main Mexican squeezes. The thread I found was rife with what I now know to be among the usual suspects: El Taco de Mexico. Chubby’s. Santiago’s. Jack-n-Grill. Tacos y Salsas. Los Carboncitos. Patzcuaro’s. And Tacos Jalisco, which I finally crossed off the list this week—with a flourish.

The moment I set foot in the main dining room, in all its lively if well-worn warmth, I had a good feeling—starting with the fact that I hadn’t yet slid into the booth where pals M & A were already holding court when the kid manning the host stand asked me (from behind, even), “Can I get you something to drink?” Like there wasn’t a moment to lose. Young man, you’re going places.

In that spirit, while perusing the entrées (M recommended the Camaron Diaz, which A & I actually used up a few precious seconds of our lives looking for), we ourselves wasted no time ordering snacks on top of the chips & salsa trio that come out pronto—starting with queso fundido.

Having been traumatized in my youth by “kwaysoh” as served in the Meximerican joints of the Midwest, I hadn’t ordered anything of the kind in years. Turns out it’s not, in fact, glue de Velveeta. It’s real Mexican melting cheese like Chihuahua or asadero, in this case mixed with crumbled chorizo. That’s it & that’s all—pure, simple, salty & luscious.

Same goes for the chicharrónes (technically a side dish). If a bowl full of seasoned, deep-fried pork rinds with chunks of meat still attached here & there doesn’t speak for itself, I don’t know what does.

Being unsure how the poblano plate differed from the chiles rellenos, I ordered it. The answer: not significantly. The poblanos are topped rather than stuffed, & they’re not breaded—but then, that’s true of some versions of chiles rellenos I’ve encountered. What I remain unsure of is whether they actually yielded the advertised mushroom cream sauce. If so, I didn’t see or taste it amid the cheese & chicken—which was itself a slight disappointment; I’d assumed it would be shredded, which is neither here nor there, but the chunks were tough & a little dry. Still, all mixed up with guacamole & sour cream, diced tomatoes & shredded iceberg alongside perfectly good beans & rice, it went down nice & easy.

If I understand the definition of alambre correctly, it specifies the technique of cooking on skewers (the word literally means “wire”); I believe that’s how Los Carboncitos uses the term on its menu. But it’s applied more loosely to a particular type of taco that contains bacon as well as ground beef or steak (&, in this case, ham), as well as peppers & onions & all the usual trimmings. Chop & char, that’s all right by me meatwise, especially when contrasted with fresh, crisp, cooling veggies & squirts of lime—though the peppers were a little too crisp, not quite softened/blackened by the grill.

Speaking of telltale markings, M pointed out the pale lines on the surface of the warm corn tortillas that indicate their pass down a conveyor belt—housemade versions are, after all, an unfortunate if understandable rarity around here (I hear Araujo’s might offer them; true? Any other tips?).

No qualified praise, meanwhile, for A’s camarones adobados—it was simply great: fresh, firm, sweet shrimp slicked with a sauce that boasted the consistency of marinade, not too thick, & a well-seasoned balance between smoky & sour elements.

Since the Director couldn’t join us, he asked me to bring him some tacos de carnitas & al carbon—as good as M’s not least for offering up a whole blistered jalapeño that we split with wide, watering eyes.

Amid the furious fleet of mobile loncheras, it’s good to remember there are some brick-&-mortar longtimers out there that aren’t budging.

Surely I’m not the first to refer to El Noa Noa as such. And if the kitchen’s as inept as it was during my one recent meal there, I won’t be the last.

But maybe it isn’t. Maybe the fact that the place has been packed with hordes for years isn’t merely proof of the spell the lovely patio casts, shady & cool with greenery & a burbling stone fountain. Maybe the food usually rocks, & my experience was a total fluke.

Somehow, though, I doubt it. And I’m not throwing good money after bad anytime soon to find out.

Too bad, because the house salsa—fresh enough to compensate for the stale chips, chunky with tomatoes, peppers, & herbs, vibrant & smoky by turns—would have constituted reason enough to return (& the sole recipient of the extra star in this barely-2-star review) had the rest been merely adequate. Had the margarita not been a watery ruin. Had the carne adovada not been toast.

Had the ceviche not contained shrimp with a musty odor. Had the beans not been paste (& that’s coming from someone who likes her refritos creamy with lard).

Had the steak nuggets on the Tacos D.F. (the name being an attempt at street cred) not been so shockingly tough & gristly that 1 bite would have been 1 too many, except that 2 were necessary to confirm that the first was really that bad.

A no-no indeed.

Every so often, Denver on a Spit & I, along with our adorable significant others, meet up to chow down & chew the fat. Since we last met at Red Tango & Silla, Mr. & Mr. Spit have been rather preoccupied by the arrival of twins, but we finally got the chance to reunite & meet the equally adorable tots over a mellow lunch at Jaliscan newcomer El Olvido. What follows is his take on the experience; for my take, click here.

Set the scene—what’d you think of the atmosphere?
I would think referring to anything going on in El Olvido that lonely Saturday afternoon an “atmosphere” would be stretching it, but if I had to describe it in a word, it would unfortunately have to be “desolate.” That being said, the lone server/host was incredibly friendly & helpful, and I was glad to see a couple kids running around as we decided to bring our boys.

That being said, we were there in the middle of a day on a Saturday at a place named after a famous mariachi song about drowning one’s sorrows in tequila & listening to mariachi. Maybe we should go back when the sun is setting & open up a bottle of tequila on the patio. Maybe they even have Mariachis. They should.

Drinking has a way of enhancing the ambiance for sure. Can you explain the difference between what you were drinking & what I was drinking?
Michelada is beer served with a concentrated, fresh-squeezed lime juice. Your Michelada roja also has things like Clamato, a clam-based tomato drink (and the only tomato drink with its own reaggeton song). Sometimes there are even oysters floating in them. [Hot damn!—Denveater] I am a beer lover who is not afraid to admit that I love my beer with ice, juice or clams. It is most refreshing while swinging on a hammock under the hot sun & listening to waves lap on the shore of a white-sand beach, but it’s also good for an early summer brunch on South Broadway, I suppose. Another bonus is that they have a couple Mexican lagers on tap—Dos Equis & Dos Equis Amber on that day.

Tell me about your huge salad. In particular, how was the dressing?

I love that they have a Caesar salad on the menu. I always find it funny that so many Italian restaurants have this salad on the menu, effectively laying claim to a Mexican invention. It was actually very good, rather eggy, & its enormity was a nice prep for my huge plate of carne en su jugo.

And what was your take on that?
Carne en su jugo? All dishes should have such great, simple & descriptive names: meat in its juice.

I have to admit that I don’t have much experience with this dish. It is a traditional dish of Jalisco (sticking with the tequila & mariachi theme), although in my native Chicago there are so many Tapatíos that it is pretty commonplace there. In Denver, El Olvido is the only place I know that serves it. Again, I don’t have a gold standard to compare it to, but I wished for something a little richer and thicker. That being said, after a sprinkle of salt I absolutely devoured my large order without a problem.

Likewise. What about your fair lady’s tacos?
Fish tacos of battered & deep-fried red snapper. It was an interesting, fusion-type plate, topped with ranch dressing of all things. They were actually quite good.

Overall, what’d you like/dislike about the place?
I liked the carne en su jugo, & I appreciate what the chef is trying to do here: focus on a few specialties & not worry about the menu-for-the-masses. There are no enchilada-burrito-chile-relleno combo platters here. I didn’t dislike anything, although the interior is a little drab. The unfortunate part is that the lack of patrons does not bode well for the staying power of El Olvido. Hopefully they will make it.

Hear, hear.

Though Eder Yañez-Mota moved to Denver in 1999, his brother Hanzel and father Andreas are much more recent transplants from Puebla, an hour southeast of Mexico City. Together the trio and their crew recreate old family recipes at Chili Verde, which has electrified the corner of a quiet residential block in the Highlands with its bright green trim outside & in—and its superb regional Mexican repertoire.

What distinguishes Pueblan cuisine is its French influence, according to Eder; after all, he points out, Cinco de Mayo does not celebrate Mexico’s independence from Spain, as many Americans believe, but from the Napoleonic empire. Hence the presence on the menu of crêpes—and hence, in his view, the unusual incorporation of fruit (raisins, peaches, plantains, apples) into the ground beef that fills the signature chile relleno (relleno, of course, means “stuffed”).

Perish the thought of anything even remotely like a jalapeño popper, which Tex Mex–style chiles rellenos tend to resemble. This dish is complex, elegant, and devoid of the thick breading in which your average sports bar coats and deep-fries the poor things. “Where we’re from,” Eder explains, “it’s quite expensive because it’s a seasonal dish, served from October to December.” Even here, where it’s served year round, the kitchen sometimes runs out of the pomegranates whose seeds are usually sprinkled on top; then, he admits, “we have to use red berries just to give it some color.”

Actually, when I had it recently, there was no fruit topping at all. But the fact that it didn’t therefore fly all the colors of the Mexican flag—green, white and red, as is traditional—didn’t make it any less emblematic of the regional cookery. As striking as the filling is, it’s the creamy nut sauce that’s most novel for those used to a smothering of chile, cheese, and little else. Tasting it, I had a strange vision of carrot cake, convinced I detected nutmeg. Wrong, Eder corrects me: it contains “Mexican sour cream, sugar, and nuts” (primarily walnuts). That’s it. And clearly, that’s enough.

You can also get the chile filled with asadero cheese—“like mozzarella,” says Eder—instead of beef. But whatever you do, don’t ignore the chips and salsa that arrive at your table first thing. They’re no token gesture; the salsa macha in particular (below right) is wonderful.

“It’s pretty much olive oil and straight-up roasted serrano peppers. We make it every day—it’s a pain,” Eder laughs. Maybe for him; for me, it’s blistering bliss on a tortilla triangle.

Mexican ceviche or cebiche (citrus-marinated fish/shellfish) tends to be chopped a lot finer than the chunky Peruvian version (which may or may not contain corn &/or sweet potato, a nifty twist). That’s neither here nor there in terms of quality; I like it all so long as it’s cold & tangy, with fresh/firm seafood & a little spice.

Confessedly, I am not a fish taco aficionado—I dunno, too much mild whiteness, they just kinda bore me. But as they go, these are A-OK, with ripe avocado & a drizzle of chile aioli, a proper dollop of curtido, & the best part, excellent refritos with a sprinkle of queso mexicano.

In a word, encantador.

Chili Verde: 3700 Tejon St.; 303.477.1377; Lunch and dinner Mon.-Sat.; $7-$13.

***This post originally appeared in my Gorging Global column for Denver Magazine. So far as I know, I’m not beholden to any confidentiality agreement following its demise, which means THE TRUTH CAN BE TOLD: I was all set to single out Socorro’s green chile as the best you haven’t tried in an upcoming issue.

Now, that’s not necessarily intended to be a factual statement as much as a deliberately provocative one, meant to shed deserved light on a dark horse contender. Still, I became convinced I wasn’t far off the mark after watching the Director—who remains fiercely loyal to El Taco de Mexico after 20 years spent scouring this town’s trucks and taco huts—basically do the butter dance with one bite. Relatively thin, with a richness that derives not from adulterating cornstarch but visible chunks of pork fat, it’s speckled with, of all things, bits of carrot—which only highlight the purity of the whole, roasty, electrically vegetal, &, yes, cough-inducingly spicy.

Onto the post.***

“Why aren’t you open?!” reads the graffiti on the door of Socorro’s. It’s a fair question: after a year in business, the tiny New Mexican–themed snackeria just off South Broadway in the Baker District still seems to be working out some logistical kinks. An ink-&-paper sign displays revised winter hours. Prices on the blackboard show an increase from the take-out menu I picked up only a couple of months ago. Don’t get your heart set on a particular agua fresca: the flavor you choose may or may not be available at any given time. And if you take the claim that the bread for the tortas, the Mexican sandwiches I came for, is “baked fresh daily” to mean that it’s made in house, well, you know what they say about assuming. It isn’t.

Despite or because of its slapdash operating procedures, however, I can’t help but get a kick out of Socorro’s. With all of 9 stools lining the counters, the space is bright & cheery, its red & yellow walls bedecked with license plates & road signs from the Land of Enchantment. Beneath them, a lone employee with a moustache as shiny as his gold teeth keeps asking me questions in Spanglish I can’t understand. No matter. The grin on his face is permanent & gentle, and his movements are mesmerizing; I’ve never seen sandwiches assembled with such forethought. He even uses two different knives to halve them: one to make the initial cut, the other to complete it.

The care he puts into them is, of course, inversely proportional to their all-out sloppiness — but it shows in their total deliciousness.

After it’s buttered and grilled, the bread is slathered with mayo & refried beans, then piled with admirably fresh, parsley-&-jalapeno-spiked pico de gallo; chopped iceberg; & your choice of six fillings. The slow-roasted, coarse-chopped beef (barbacoa), for example, is moist and & simply but deeply flavorful; the marinated, cumin-scented chunks of pork spilling from the torta al pastor (a/k/a “The 505,” named for New Mexico’s area code) are mixed with juicy chunks of fresh pineapple. At some point I realized I was squeezing the whole mess the way a child would a rag doll: with extra-stupid love.

At $7.25 apiece, Socorro’s tortas are relatively expensive (as are its other specialties: street-style tacos go for $2 a pop, & a deluxe burrito will run you as much as $7). But I say they’re worth it — especially since they come with a broad, sweet smile.

Getting a bunless burger at Jack-n-Grill makes about as much sense as that old joke about the girl who leaves the cherry off the hot fudge sundae because she’s on a diet. Nevertheless, it was the least I could do to forestall an anyeurism as I eyeballed the burial piles of chow on tables around me & my pal Rebecca (author of From Argentina with Love) at the Littleton branch—surprisingly festive & warm given the soulless strip-mall location—especially considering that those were the “normal” portions. The fact that, according to the server in the photo, fully 15 fellow diners had ordered the 7-pound burrito tackled by Adam Richman on Man Vs. Food back in 2009 BEFORE 1 PM was more than even my relatively insatiable appetite could bear. Who wakes up in the morning & thinks, I want to pack on 24,500 calories’ worth of extra fat by bedtime?!

So anyway, I asked for The Jaxx sans bun, & it was still hilarious. Somewhere under the chopped green chile, bacon slices, American cheese, ketchup & mustard; over the guacamole, sour cream, lettuce, tomato & red onion; & alongside a mess of onion rings was a 10 oz. patty of ground chuck.

Was it awesome? Not from a legitimately critical standpoint—the burger kinda gristly & medium-well; the “guacamole” just unseasoned, roughly mashed avocado; the thought of 7 condiments at once (not counting the veggie garnishes) as unappealing as it was appealing. But somehow the combination was addictive in a trashy way, each questionable element compensating for another to equal an answer, the answer being hell yes! As for the onion rings, how often do they really suck? Generally speaking I like my breading looser, lighter, & fresher à la Rodney’s, but here it slid off the sweet & slippery onion flesh in grease-spurting crunches I couldn’t say no to.

That said, the red chile on Rebecca’s bean “sopaipilla” (the pen’s for size comparison) was flat-out excellent—pure-tasting, full of that smoky, slightly bitter savor of roasted pepper skin. As far as I’m concerned, New Mexico having always been my second home, no sopaipilla should be so stretched so thin that it’s bursting at the seams—it should be a pocket unto itself—but once again the dish as a whole came together as it should have, a mosaic of textures & funky flavors.

Jack-n-Grill’s an institution for a reason. A reason that’s grotesque in the literary sense—”combining ugliness & ornament, the bizarre & the ridiculous, the excessive & the unreal”—but a reason nonetheless.

Chicken-fried steak: just a swastika on a plate.

At least that’s how it looked to me as a Jewish kid growing up in Oklahoma. When it was served in the school cafeteria, everyone but me seemed to know & find comfort in it; thus the yellow-gray slab of gristle stood a symbol of my outsiderliness, & the fact that it likely derives from the weinerschnitzel German immigrants brought with them to Texas only confirmed my suspicions. Help, help, I’m being repressed by Aryan edibles!

Now that I’m a slightly less touchy adult, breaded, fried steak doesn’t seem so ominous; in fact, it’s right up my gut-busting alley, especially as made fresh at Lola—with chorizo cream gravy, sweet potato-chorizo hash & pickled onions.

Granted, even here it’s not exactly a delicacy; you don’t go pounding & battering filet mignon into oblivion, but rather a cheaper, tougher cut. So it’s a little chewy, a little greasy—but that’s all to the good of a brunchtime hangover cure, easing the throb with its deep, dark savor & crunch.

Still, the rich, peppery sauce & roasty, toasty, earthy-sweet & salty hash are what keep it interesting beyond the 1st few bites, especially when alternated with the excellent salsa sampler.

Of the 4—tomatillo–green apple, grilled chipotle–tomato, chile verde & signature muñoz—the first 2 really stood out, the 1 tart & refreshing, the other smoky & tangy on warm tortilla chips.

For a full report on brunch at Lola, click here. Or file your own—at the time of this posting, you’ll still have 2 1/2 hours to experience for yourself some sopapillas with lavender honey & house-cured salmon benedict (which, granted, could use a bit more salmon; but the yellow tomatoes add zing).

Oh, sure, in some ways it's a no-brainer. El Tac's the ultimate in hyperlocal go-tos for straight-up, hardcore Mexican grub, no frills & no BS. Sam's No. 3…isn't.

What it is is your average Greek-run urban diner: it’s been around, in 1 form or another, run by one family member or another, for 80 years. It’s downtown Denver’s only answer to the crowded, clattering, chattering, clanking, cranky diners of New York, with their phosphates & blue plates, cheap coffee & bagels, souvlaki & hash. And for that it's to be commended: every city needs at least one.

Being, however, in this particular city, it must needs delve into comida as well. It does so with no more or less aplomb than it does anything else: okay. But the Kickin' Pork Green Chile really is pretty kickin.' And porky. And chile-y. Not so green, granted, presumably containing fewer actual chiles & more tomatoes than some versions (which is wholly legit; there's no one correct, "authentic" recipe). 

That's it in the bowl, in the center of the Mexican Breakfast, between the dry chorizo, jalapeño & jack omelet with tomatoes & onions, the stale flour tortillas & the slightly crispy refried beans—which are actually pretty decent. Still, the chile's the best thing on the plate by far—startlingly spicy but not merely spicy, & neither too thin nor too thick.  

(It's also better than the Greek salad—which isn't bad; but even considering that the platonic ideal of a diner salad is precisely "not bad"—if it were memorably sumptuous it would be incongruous—the gryo meat on my recent order was less than fresh. The veggies were crisp, however, & I liked the fluffy pita & the basic, thick tzatziki.

As for the squishy, blah French toast, anything's better than that.)

All that said, I'd be a fool to say the green chile's better than El Tac's, not least for reasons of context: at the bright yellow long-timer on Santa Fe, it's in its element & its purest form. 

The notoriously stone-faced—but quietly polite—ladies who run the open kitchen make both pork & vegetarian green chile, the former as a stew, the latter as a sauce. Said sauce, is, as you can see, much thinner & greener than Sam's—& much more about the flavor profile of roasted chiles per se; they are, after all, vegetables (actually, botanically speaking, they're fruit, but who's counting), not just heat-seeking missiles.

That there's the breakast burrito, chock-full

of scrambled eggs, Spanish-style rice, refried beans & chorizo & topped with cheese. I like to add a few spoonfuls of the soupy red salsa on the side. Then I like to stuff myself silly. Then I like to bitch & moan about how I full I am until my next meal. 

Of course, there is one ugly blotch on El Tac's stellar rep: no booze. On that score, then, Sam's sweeps: it makes a cheap & killer, in every sense of the word, loaded bloody mary. 

That & a bowl of the green chile would be a meal in itself. And by meal I mean a satisfyingly masochistic scorch-&-burn siege on your whole digestive system.