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I had already eaten lunch by the time we pulled into El Ruso, a tiny taco truck nestled in a tiny parking lot in L.A.’s Boyle Heights neighborhood. Was I hungry? Not at all. Was I, perhaps, not in the best mood because just hours ago I had taken a 5 a.m. flight from New York City to Los Angeles? Ask my husband and my mom. These delicate situations—combined with me forcing them, just as stuffed and lethargic as I am, to eat a second lunch, hobbit style—seemed perfectly primed for a game of passive-aggressive complaining. (This is what conflict looks like for my family!) And that might have very well happened if the tacos at El Ruso weren’t so incredible.
It starts with the tortilla, a diaphanous round of vegetable shortening, water, salt, and Mexican flour. Julia Silva, El Ruso’s tortilla maestra, drives down to Mexicali for this specific flour, which she thinks is softer than the American variety, and flattens each tortilla by hand, the same way she’s always done for 40 years. The result is the perfect pliable, fat-laced vessel for chef Walter Soto’s fillings.
Finessed over 17 years of making tacos—both professionally in his native Sinaloa and for fun at family gatherings once he moved to L.A.—Soto’s tacos hit all the right notes. He serves them costra style, throwing Monterrey cheese underneath Silva’s already perfect tortillas, and then griddles it, so the cheese fuses to the tortilla and becomes simultaneously scorched, crunchy, and melty. The ideal texture! The carne asada is simply seasoned (just sea salt) and expertly grilled to an actually juicy medium. On top, Soto spoons a ladleful of red beans, plump and velvety after simmering for hours with a little bit of chile and sea salt.
The second I started spooning from the truck’s choose-your-condiment adventure—salsa roja, guacamole, cilantro-laced raw onions, pickled onions, and a few lime wedges—it didn’t matter how grumpy, full, and sleep-deprived I’d felt just minutes earlier. And the moment the tacos hit our plastic table, it was clear my mom and husband had forgotten, too. We ate in blissful silence, soaking up the L.A. sun and some dribbling meat juices. Second lunch at El Ruso truly does wonders.
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