Street Tacos In Tijuana's La Zona Centro
Tijuana was a mystery that got under your skin. It tunneled into your blood. And once it was there, it never really left you, and forever became part of who you were.
The hot Southern California sun beat down mercilessly on the concrete jungle of San Diego and Tijuana as I made my way towards Mexico across the border. It was a typical Saturday afternoon. Blue sky. The endless concrete of the 5 South freeway stretched and curved into the horizon. The city thrummed with an energy that was both chaotic and at the same time deeply intoxicating. The air was thick with the scent of exhaust fumes, street food, and that unmistakable aroma of possibility that seemed to hang endlessly in every corner of this bustling metropolis. I parked on the American side of the border and approach the border crossing into Mexico. I was struck by the sheer volume of cars that were already lined up, their occupants sweating and fidgeting as they inched closer to America’s southern neighbor. Crossing on foot here, I was able to get a long, last look at the divide that separated two nations. A stark reminder of that invisible line that also separated two worlds that were extremely different yet lived so close to one another. It was a line that some crossed daily for work. Others crossed for pleasure. And still, some actually crossed in desperate hope of a better life.
While the border crossing by car was nearly always packed, the pedestrian crossing was no less crowded. It was a sea of humanity surging forward with a singular purpose — to cross either one way or the other. I found myself swept along in the current, the sea of people moving along with me. Some Americans crossing for the day or a vacation. Some Mexicans crossing to return home. My senses were assaulted by a cacophony of languages from nearly everywhere on the globe. The sharp staccato of Mexican Spanish mingling with the slower drawl of English, and the occasional burst of something I couldn’t quite place.
After filling out the new visitor registration form and walking through security, I emerged on the other side of the complex in no time at all. As I stepped out into Mexico, I was immediately engulfed by the vibrant chaos of what was essentially, Tijuana. Already, street vendors selling all kinds of goods had lined the sidewalks. Their wares were a colorful tapestry of knock-off designer goods, tacky souvenirs, and mouth-watering street food which meant to quench a thirst or perhaps cause it. The air was filled with the sizzle of meat on tear down grills that were erected for the day, the shouts of hawkers, and the constant honking of impatient drivers looking to burst through the traffic to move on to their next destination.
I came to Tijuana and crossed on foot for a single reason—the food. I made my way towards the wander’s nirvana, the outdoor food destination in Tijuana that many crossed to experience every day. La Zona Centro. My stomach was already growling in anticipation of the culinary adventure that waited for me in this well known destination of local Mexican cuisine. Getting there though was like walking through living chaos. The streets were a maze of activity. Locals and tourists alike jostling for space on the crowded sidewalks. Cars drove by as traffic clogged and hogged the road in every direction. Every corner I passed seemed to house a taco stand, both old and new, permanent and temporary. The intoxicating aroma of grilled meat and fresh tortillas was immediate, jarring and pulling at me, beckoning like a siren song no matter where I pointed my nose.
La Zona Centro was a short walk from the border crossing and was easily accessed on foot. It was the destination of many San Diego tourists as well as locals who stopped in for a taco on their way to work or while running errands. My first stop was the very well known Cafe La Especial, a Tijuana institution that has been serving up its famous vapor-cooked tacos since 1952. That’s right, nearly three-quarters of a century. This amazing taco shop was a time capsule. Its worn tiles and faded photographs told story after story of countless meals shared between family and friends, and memories made in this very location. I sidled up to the counter and ordered a very badly needed cerveza to combat the oppressive heat of Tijuana in the middle of a California summer.
I sucked the ice-cold beer down slowly, feeling the drenched bottle firmly clasped in my hand as the chef placed my order in front of me to dig into. The beef taco was a work of absolute beauty. Dear readers, I am excited to report that this taco practically melted in my mouth the moment I bit down on it. The beef was tender and perfectly seasoned. The pickled carrots added a slight tangy crunch to it, while the fresh leek provided a subtle oniony bite. This culinary monster was a symphony of flavors wrapped up in the palm of my hand, each component playing its part to bring all of the flavors and textures together in a salty, savory explosion. This tiny morsel in my hand combined this cold beer that sat in front me as the bottle sweat slowly rolled down the glass and onto the counter, was completely sublime. This dish and this experience was the essence of Tijuana. It was the life’s blood of the people who cooked here. And a staple of this establishment, this town, and its people.
The streets of La Zona Centro were a labyrinth of sights, sounds, and smells. Every corner brought a new discovery. From the hole-in-the-wall cantinas, to the bustling markets overflowing with fresh produce and local crafts. La Zona Centro was a local treasure of cultivated, culinary masterpieces. All of them waiting to be discovered, savored, and experienced again and again. I wandered over to Tacos Varios de La Sexta. This local gem was a street food landmark that was as much a part of Tijuana's culinary landscape as the border itself. The stand was deceptively simple and unassuming. But as I approached, I could instantly see that the line of hungry patrons spoke volumes about its popularity and its quality.
Tacos Varios de La Sexta really doesn’t have a menu. As I waited in line, I could hear some patrons uttering the magic words that revealed the contents of the counter: "¿De qué tiene?" No sooner was the question asked, as vendor's hands began to move around the cart, lifting the lids of his containers one by one, revealing a treasure trove of stewed meats and vegetables. Tacos Varios de La Sexta is a daily lottery and a gastronomical surprise, each container holding the potential for culinary nirvana. I ordered the bistec con papas, a hearty combination of tender beef and perfectly cooked potatoes. I joined the second queue of patrons as I wait for my order, leaning against a nearby wall. I turned my head and observed the ebb and flow of life around me. This humble taco stand was a microcosm of Tijuana itself. It attracted everyone from everywhere, and it didn’t discriminate. From casual American visitors to dusty laborers, to locals just stopping for a moment to grab a snack—every person was united in their quest for a satisfying meal.
The chef called my order out as he held my plate up in the air. I firmly grasped my order with both hands and thanked him with a smile and quick nod. The taco was a simple. A corn tortilla cradling a generous portion of the steaming stew that I selected. The first bite was an explosion of deep, soothing, comfort. It was hot in my hands, warm in my mouth, and created a feeling for familiarity and home. The beef was intensely rich and flavorful. The potatoes were the perfect companions as they soaking up the savory juices in the corn tortilla. It was comfort food at its absolute finest. It was unpretentious, yet it was deeply satisfying and completely fulfilling. It felt safe. It felt warm. It felt wonderful.
Eating here, in the heart of this old city, it’s difficult not to people watch as well. While I ate, I panned up and down the street, watching the parade of humanity as it passed by me. Food tour groups from Mexico and America all wandered around, cameras at the ready. They moved in unison, eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and trepidation as their tour leader lead them from one taco place to another. Local families strolled by, out to grab a quick bite together. Children tugged at their parents' hands as they begging for treats from the various vendors. Even local workers hurry past, squeezing in a quick late lunch before returning to their jobs. As Tijuana was always under some type of construction no matter when you visit or drive through it, construction workers also popped over to a stand to grab a taco, shoving it quickly down, and then running back to their demolition zones.
The diversity was both amazing and staggering. It was a gentle reminder that Tijuana, much like its sister city of San Diego, was more than just a border town. It was also a melting pot. It was a place where cultures collided and coexisted. Sometimes the experience was uneasy, uncomfortable, or even abrasive. But it was always extremely diverse and brilliantly vibrant. Every person visiting here was from somewhere. Each person had a story, a history, and contributed to the narrative. Each face told a tale. Where they were from. What was their struggle. What was their passion. What was their intention. I stared into the sea of humanity as I ate, sometimes inventing narratives for the passersby and imagined the lives they lead on either side of the border. Where they were from. What they did. Why they were here. I finished my taco and wiped my fingers clean with a napkin. Walking over to the chef, I quickly gave him a fist bump as he smiled and nodded to me without missing a beat in service. Another satisfied customer. Another day. Another person who would not only return to try something else another day, but would also gladly tell others to come to Tacos Varios de La Sexta.
I checked my watch for the time. Between my schedule and my appetite, I had room for one more stop to satiate my taste buds. I wandered over to Tras/Horizonte for a final quick bite before heading back to San Diego. Tras/Horizonte wasn’t your typical taco joint. This place was the brainchild of chef Oso Campos, a culinary maverick who's taken the humble taco and elevated it to an art form. And before you break out your Spanish to English Dictionary, Oso does, in fact mean “bear” in English. Getting a flavor for La Zona Centro included a multitude of old and new establishments. It included vendors who are a staple here day after day, and some vendors who stop in for the briefest of moments. This restaurant was a completely different experience all together. Here, the industrial chic met the Baja cool. It had a vibe of classy shabby, with exposed brick walls that were adorned with local art and tables made from reclaimed wood. It was a space that managed to feel both edgy and welcoming, much like Tijuana itself was when you entered the city from from Mexico or the United States.
The menu was eclectic and creative. Chef Oso Campos managed to perfectly blend the traditional with the avant-garde in stunning and almost seamless perfection. The menu was a tour through the mind of a creative gastronomical genius with a playful nod to tourists seeking the traditional, but with a flair of the new. I made a mental note to return here for an early afternoon aperitif. To enjoy other concoctions and a few cocktails as well. In the end, I had to choose just one dish before heading back home, and I just couldn’t help myself. The Gringo was a fun poke at me and at nearly every American tourist who wandered down to Tijuana in search of a tasty treat.
I was that gringo from America who, like the dish described, wandered down just south of the border. My server delivered my taco on a handmade ceramic plate, a work of art in its own right. It was perfectly crafted. A balance of the familiar and the unfamiliar. Chile California relleno de camarones en adobo. It was perfectly charred, blistered and smoky. I cut into it with amusement and surprise as the melted cheese oozed out mingling with the plump, succulent shrimp. The first bite was an unexpected flavor explosion. The heat of the chile was tempered by the creamy cheese, while the shrimp added a tiny briny sweetness that tied everything together into a seamless blend of textures and flavors that just harmonized perfectly together. It was completely different from the street tacos I had been enjoying just moments before, but it was no less authentic, no less delicious, and no less incredible. This, too, was Tijuana cuisine, innovative and unafraid to push boundaries.
La Zona Centro, it seemed was a place of indulgence and constant surprises. Whether feasting on humble street taco stands that were as timeless as the cuisine itself, or indulging in a temple of modern Mexican cuisine and gastronomy that borderlined on Michelin Star excellence, the experience was not just physical but cultural as well. Full of timeless traditions, soulful dedication, and innovative curiosity, Tijuana was a city of contrasts. It was a place where tradition and innovation coexisted in complete harmony. It was where the lines between cultures blurred and new identities were forged nearly every day. It was a city that wore its heart on its sleeve, unashamed of its rough edges yet constantly striving to reinvent itself in new and modern ways.
I reluctantly made my way back to the border crossing in the late afternoon as the sun hung low in sky, gently edging below the Tijuana skyline. The line of cars queuing up to enter the United States was ever lasting. Growing longer and longer, it seemed, with every passing hour. I walked pasted the lengthy queue of pedestrians standing and waiting to enter the United States. My SENTRI pass allowing me to bypass the worst of the wait as the line snaked around the building behind me in the far distance. I passed families clutching shopping bags, likely returning from a day of bargain hunting in Tijuana's markets. Workers with tired eyes and calloused hands, heading back to restaurants where they would be working this evening in San Diego's kitchens, cooking the food of those going out for a night on town. Students with backpacks full of books, straddling two worlds as they pursued their education in the United States, taking advantage of new opportunities away from their homes in Mexico. But then, there were the others. The ones with no bags. The ones with no possessions. The ones with clothes on their backs and hope in their hearts. They waited patiently, nervously, their eyes darted back and forth as I walked past them in the SENTRI line. They were the homeless in Tijuana. The ones who truly never had a chance at the American Dream, much less the Mexican one.
I neared the front of the SENTRI line, walking towards the border guards who were waiting to check my passport and GLOBAL Entry ID. I pass a woman sitting on the ground, her three small children huddled close around her. A battered hat sat in front of them with a few coins and crumpled bills scattered inside. Without thinking, I reached into my pocket and drop a dollar into the hat as I passed. It was a paltry sum. It was barely enough for even a single meal. I looked down as I walked past, the woman raising her head to look back up at me. The woman's grateful smile made my heart ache in a way that felt decent. In a manner that felt good. And in a way that felt like the border wall just didn’t exist.
All of this was Tijuana. It was a city of dreams and desperation. It was a place of incredible wealth and grinding poverty. It was a place where the realities of geopolitics and economics played out in real-time. It was a place where the consequences of policies made in far-off capitals were felt acutely on the streets and in the homes of everyone who lived here. My crossing back into the United States was uneventful. The trip home was mostly mundane. And as I pulled myself into bed that evening, and I drifted off to sleep that night, my dreams were filled with images of the entire experience of an incredible day. Yes, there were memories of sizzling grills and smiling faces. Vivid recollections of crowded streets and quiet moments of connection with the chefs behind the counters. Conversations with the servers who made time to chat as they ran through the restaurant delivering food to all of the patrons. And the vivid memory of the unending stare into the eyes of a homeless woman and her three children who relied on the kindness of strangers for daily survival. The magic of Tijuana was bare. It was raw. It was mystical and sometimes cruel and unforgiving. It was a mystery that got under your skin. It tunneled into your blood. And once it was there, it never really left you, and forever became part of who you were.