Wandering Hungry

Duck, Fat, and Other LA Life Choices

Los Angeles. If you’re going to pick a place to grab a quick bite to eat at random, you don’t go to Eagle Rock by accident. You end up there. You’re usually hungry, slightly annoyed at the traffic, and chasing an internet rumor that somewhere between the strip malls and quiet streets, someone is doing something borderline reckless with duck fat and a tortilla. But this culinary construct isn’t your standard, everyday taco. This is what happens when French technique and Mexican instinct collide in a way that feels both deeply wrong and completely right, all at once. One bite in, and suddenly your plans for the day, your dignity, and perhaps your sense of restraint, are all gone. Instead, they’re replaced by the quiet, undeniable understanding that you would absolutely brave bumper-to-bumper traffic, driving across Los Angeles again, and again, and again…..just for this.

Los Angeles is a city that always rewards bad decisions. The kind of decisions that come with the consequences of patience and perseverance. You tell yourself you’re just “popping out for a quick bite,” and suddenly you’re twenty minutes deep into Eagle Rock. As the serpentine Los Angeles traffic stretches out in front of you across the wavy asphalt into the distance, you begin questioning your life choices and your GPS, all for the promise of something vaguely described as “a really good taco.” This…. is how it gets you.

Here’s the thing about LA: beneath the yoga mats, green juice, and aggressively pleasant people named Skyler, there exists a parallel universe. A better one. One where pork fat reigns supreme, tortillas matter more than bread, and the phrase “just one more taco” is both a lie and a personal manifesto. CaCao Mexicatessen lives squarely in that universe. It doesn’t scream for attention. After all, it doesn’t need to. You show up because someone you trust—someone who knows better—told you, “Get the duck.” And that’s all the instruction you need. No menu deep-dive, no analysis paralysis, no existential choices. Just the duck.

You may not believe me, but duck confit and carnitas are distant cousins who don’t talk at family gatherings. One is French, aristocratic, slow-roasted in its own fat like it has nowhere else to be. The other is Mexican, cooked low and slow over fire, unapologetically rustic, and the culinary equivalent of a backyard party that got a little out of hand. But strip away the cultural baggage, and you realize they’re basically the same beautiful idea. They’re meat, salt, fat, time, and a complete disregard for moderation.

Someone at CaCao had the good sense—and possibly the mild recklessness—to notice this and think, “What if we stop pretending these two worlds shouldn’t collide?” So they took duck, treated it like carnitas, and created something that felt like both inevitable and slightly illegal. The result is the duck carnitas taco, or tacos de pato if you want to sound like a regular. The first bite is the kind that makes you pause mid-chew. Your eyes narrowing slightly as the juice hits your palate, and you begin to wonder if you really just uncovered a secret you’re not sure you’re supposed to share with everyone on YELP. The duck is rich, impossibly tender, with edges that crisp up just enough to remind you that texture, when it comes to tacos, is what truly brings it all together. Then comes the salsa macha and cilantro—sharp, peppery, cutting through the fat like a well-timed insult. Citrus red onion brings acid and smooths things over. The whole construction is held together by a thin, handmade blue corn tortilla that deserves its own fan club.

That homemade tortilla is a culinary thing of beauty. It’s doing more heavy lifting than it gets credit for. It’s thin, delicate, but structurally sound. Like a good dive bar stool, it doesn’t fall apart under pressure. It knows its job and does it well, which is more than you can say for most things in this city. And before you dig in, don’t forget to squeeze lime over the top. If you forget, believe me, you’re going to get looks and silent judgement. Add a sip of chilled Mexican Chenin Blanc from Valle de Guadalupe that’s bright, slightly rebellious, and suddenly everything clicks into place. The brisk Chenin Blanc struts on your palate like it knows it’s crashing a party dominated by beer. The fat, the acid, the crunch, the wine—suddenly, it’s not just a taco anymore. It’s a moment. One of those rare, fleeting moments where Los Angeles actually takes a brief pause, goes silent, and starts to make sense.

And just like that, your “quick side trip” turns a small, greasy, deeply satisfying detour into something completely unexpected. No pretense. No nonsense. Just a quiet afternoon in the hot, lazy, Southern California sun. Stuck in the middle of LA rush hour at any hour. A chilled glass of Mexican wine to brighten your afternoon. And a perfect taco, born from a culinary mashup that probably shouldn’t work, but absolutely, unequivocally does.