Along the stretch of Colfax where Denver begins to give way to Aurora, a motley collection of strip malls, repurposed gas stations and shabby storefronts house an equally diverse collection of culinary experiences. Ethiopian and Japanese joints stand side by side; neighboring Peruvian and Salvadoran spots provide ample opportunity for pupusa comparison. And Mexican restaurants are everywhere, featuring everything from mariscos to menudo.
mark manger
The al pastor tent outside of Taco Mex is just beginning to cook.
Location Info
Details
Taco Mex
One taco $.99
Breakfast burrito $4
Menudo $6.50
Gordita $2
Smothered burrito $5.50
7840 East Colfax Avenue
303-394-7555
Hours: 8 a.m.-midnight daily
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In the midst of all this sits Taco Mex, an immaculately painted red-and-white box that looks like it might once have been a fast-food outlet, though block lettering on the windows proclaims that it now sells tortas, tacos and gorditas. Taco Mex's patio along Colfax is almost always packed, and at nights and on weekends, patrons spill into the parking lot, gathering by a tent that occupies a couple of car slots right in front of the door. There they chat in Spanish with the aproned crew manning the patched-together outdoor kitchen: a flat-top grill, a steam table, a massive vat of orange grease swimming with brisket and sausage, a rotisserie and a miniature salsa bar, all crammed into the six-foot-by-six-foot space.
The spit is the star, a slowly turning metal rod that skewers a beehive-shaped mass of chile-rubbed pork, dripping with grease and topped with chunks of pineapple that leak juice all over the meat. As the rotisserie rotates over the flame, a cook will periodically reach over to carve off a slice of pork, then throw it on the grill with some of the pineapple. After a minute or two, he'll scoop the meat and fruit onto two stacked corn tortillas, top that with bits of cilantro and onion, then hand the plate of tacos to a salivating customer. These are tacos al pastor, slow-cooked the traditional, central-Mexican way — a rarity in this city because of the space and time required.
Craving these tacos, I stopped by Taco Mex a few weeks ago, dodging packs of children to reach the counter just inside the door, which fronts a tiled room outfitted with plastic tables and chairs that are bolted to the floor. More kids were darting between the furnishings, coming dangerously close to dipping grubby hands in the more substantial salsa bar on one side of the room or knocking over the Our Lady of Guadalupe candles surrounding shrines on the opposite wall. A menu board mounted above the register featured pictures of dozens of Mexican and Mexican-American dishes (but no prices); next to the cashier were two-foot-tall jars of freshly made cantaloupe, watermelon and pineapple juice, as well as a dispenser for horchata.
After taking in the chaos, I found what I was looking for: The taco choices were outlined, in English and Spanish, on a small-print, black-and-white flier in a plastic stand next to the register. Once I'd made my choices and paid up, the ponytailed cashier sent half my taco order — for tongue and birria, a spicy Jaliscan stew traditionally made with goat but here made with beef — back to the kitchen, then handed me a ticket and told me to present it to the cooks outside.
Clutching a couple of inches of printer tape — it listed pastor, cheek and longaniza, the piquant, finely ground pork sausage made with vast quantities of paprika, which gives it an angry red color — I stepped back outside and fought my way up to the tent. A cook took the receipt, nodded and started working on my order, metal spatula flashing as he flipped piles of meat on the flat-top. While I waited, I munched on a plate of radishes I'd snagged from the inside salsa bar and sucked down a cantaloupe juice that was liquefied melon on ice, sweet and refreshing and (almost) a worthy substitute for beer (Taco Mex doesn't have a liquor license). A few minutes later, just as the smoke from the chiles in the pastor marinade was starting to sting my eyes, the cook handed over a paper plate loaded with tacos. I gave each a liberal ladle of either racy red or green salsa from the outdoor bar, found a seat at a picnic table, and dug in.
I started with the cheek, so velvety with fat it practically dripped down my throat. The sausage was as fiery as it looked, juice drooling onto the warm corn tortillas, the meat carrying just a hint of char from the grill. And then the tacos al pastor: smoky, peppery nuggets of tender pork, crisped lightly on the outside, contrasting with sweet flecks of brûléed pineapple — all highlighted by the onions, cilantro and salsa piled on top, their liquid dripping down my hand. The combination created an earthy burn enlivened by a fresh bite.
Each taco was gone within three gulps. Fortunately, just as I'd tracked down every scrap, the cashier arrived with the rest of my order. I've had better birria; the Taco Mex version was uncharacteristically tough and dry, though it simmered with hot red chile. But the grilled tongue — sliced so thin that the tastebuds were barely visible — was beefy, tender and flavorful.
