As a San Diego native, fish tacos are as much a part of my soul as clam chowder is to a New Englander. Before I relocated to San Francisco two years ago, I had a ceremonious San Diego Mexican dining fest consisting of a multi-day hedonistic orgy of carne asada burritos, fish tacos, and taquitos (with guac and cheese on top) as I knew it was probably the last time I would have a decent incarnation of any of the aforementioned meals.
After I got settled in, I started trying some of the Mexican fare in San Francisco, in particular in the Mission district, and I was pleasantly surprised. The problem was that although the Mexican food decent, no one was able to properly recreat that perfectly beer battered baja style fish taco that I had become accustomed to — that is until I came across Tacko.
The thing about Tacko is that it looks nothing like a place where you think you’d get decent Mexican food. The interior is ultra-preppy Cape-Cod/New England style interior. It looks like Abercrombie and Ralph Lauren got together and opened a Mexican food joint. Upon entering, everyone atom of my foodie DNA started firing abort signals for me to get out of there. It was too clean and too gringo to be any good was what I kept telling myself.
After waiting 15 minutes in a line full of frat boys and sorority girls, I was within reading distance of the menu. “San Diego Style Carne Asada Burrito”, “Baja Style Fish Taco” said the menu. With a prejudiced smirk I placed my order and already began preparing my tounge and brain for what I thought would ultimately be a 15 dollar dissapointment.
I sat and patiently waited while they prepared my meal and after 10 minutes, this lovely girl, whose uniform made her look like she was part of a staff on on some uber-rich guy’s yacht, brought my meal with a smile.
There it was, my beloved baja fish taco, and my enigmatic carne asada burrito, both sitting there waiting to ultimately dissapoint me. Now the rule in San Diego is to eat the fish taco first. This is because the beer batter breading will get soggy from the cabbage and tartar sauce juices (first world problem at its finest). I squeezed the lime on there, closed my eyes, held my breath and took a bite.
Could it be? Is it possible? Is this for real? I opened my eyes to double check that it wasn’t some kind of a dream. Nope, still in a preppy taco shop in the Marina. Holy mother of fish tacos Batman! This was one of THE BEST fish tacos I’ve ever had anywhere! The fish was fresh, flaky and meaty (kind of like Halibut). The beer batter was perfection. The sauce, tortilla, thickness of the cabbage slices — perfection. I quickly grabbed the unassuming burrito that sat aside my taco, and quickly took a bite. In-friggen-credible! Amazingly tender beef (I found it later that they use only American Kobe beef, probably from some hipster farm nearby), perfectly seasoned, the right amount of guac, cheese, pico de gallo — all wrapped in a wheat tortialla.
I sat. I ate. I was in disbelief. How is it possible that Mexican food can taste so good, so far away from the border, in such a non Mexican part of town? I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I do know that since that day, Tacko has been a regular debtor of my checking account. I go there several times a week, and I just don’t get sick of it. I want to get sick of it. After all, it really damn expensive (average of $15-$18 a meal). But like a addict in the Tenderloin, I just can’t kick the habit.
FoodShark 