Photo Credit: Jean-Gabriel Fernandez
Mazorca Taco truck
Before 2010, when The Fast Foodie trademarked the name “Globaco” in some kind of full shark-jumping signifier of the epochal food truck wars, and long before today’s scene of the Zocalo food truck park, complete with the backing of real estate developers and an “incubator” program; before food truck festivals, Food Truck Friday, Food Truck Thursday, Takeout Tuesday, changing locations necessitating hungers be equipped with GPS-capabilities, before $12 crepes, $5 mushroom tacos, takeovers, residencies, Food Network validation, before the food truck was a hip wedding menu option—almost all somehow worth it, all ridiculous but inevitable, overdone but delicious—there was the taco truck.
Really since, probably, 1974. That is when Raul Martinez converted an ice cream truck into King Taco and parked it outside of an L.A. bar. Lines formed, a legend was born, offshoots ensued, and it was a first step toward fixed, consistent locations. A metaphorical flag seemed planted. The dawn of an era, certainly, but really it was but the next step in a lineage that flows organically, pragmatically, from roaming street tamale vendors that date to as early as the late 1800s. Also, more simply, from lunch carts at construction sites. Any time humans move and build, portable kitchens will surely follow.
Today, in an era of mobile offerings listing the likes of Mochaccino cupcakes, how much said kitchens choose to raise their fists in culinary challenge to brick-and-mortar locations really just seems a matter of ambition and philosophy.
But a quest for such bygone spots is not just an act of nostalgia. It’s far from slumming or the loaded, problematic idea of authenticity. It’s a harkening of a simpler time, before we gussied menus and overshadowed the farmers at farmers markets with lines for $8 waffles, before mobile grilled cheeses required “Cedar Valley Two Year Aged Cheddar,” before what Ta-Nehisi Coates, in a skeptical essay penned in the Atlantic in 2010, termed with some derision, “nuevo-food trucks.”
If you know where to look, when to stop, how to navigate crinkly handwritten placards of exotic-sounding meats and such, you can make yourself heard over grumbling generators attached to rickety Freightliners, glimpses of this old world still abound. Quick, cheap, consistent, doused in multiple salsas, chased with frigid Jarritos, this is a pursuit of no-frills, flavorful, long-stewed quick meal.
You don’t have to live every moment like it’s a beer commercial with an Instagram-able converted camper, with clever alliteration names, hyper-specification, like it was Austin, like it was Portland, pesky cities of smug overachieving and some oblique pursuit of “weirdness.” Sometimes you just want a taco. Through a hungry and thorough survey of Milwaukee summer streets, these are your best bets for such movable feasts.
12. El Charrito
Some slithery cooked onions and half of a huge charred jalapeño side a taco plate—the only real indicator this is anything but standard, cheap workaday Mexican fare. But that might very well be what you’re after, especially after shopping at the never-ending Restaurant Depot, or cranking on the sprawling hard hat site that is the new Michels Corp development that one of the four El Charritos sits beside. If so, the pastor is a satisfyingly seasoned pork filling, tender and mostly drowning in blood-red, adobo-rich sauce.
A chorizo torta, with not-quite-crisped but not-too-greasy meat, is a big-hearted lunchtime bomb of a sandwich just this side of nap-inducing, held together precariously by a griddled bolillo roll, souled up with the usual filler of cream, lettuce, tomato. Side anything with the special stewy charro beans—pintos in a smoky, soupy broth—to fill out a full appetite. Otherwise, it is limited-menu, no-frills starter platter fare starring prominently two-buck, double-corn tortilla tacos, packed with the salty meatstuff of your preference, peaked with heaps of onion and cilantro, sided by exactly the well-executed baseline taco truck spirit that flattops-on-wheels should always embody.
Find it: Daily schedule posted on the Tacos el Charrito Facebook page.
11. Tacos El Amigo
Perhaps as a nod to the neighborhood’s encroaching condo sprawl, the menu here sports the likes of nachos, wings, pulled pork, other Philly sandwich type stuffs. Also, perhaps in protest, the dark truck appears in raggedy, noisy form, the service comes sans smile, and the vibe is that of the Black Hat character on the First and National scene.
Skip the drunk college kid fare, also the singular allure of what proves to be a docile shrimp taco. Rather, the Milanesa torta hits all pleasure points for a quick lunch or a hunger-necessitating buzz from too many nearby craft cocktails. Inside the pale, soft bolillo roll, breaded, lightly fried chicken cutlet hunks form a well-rounded flavor squad with pinto beans, avocado, mayo and melty queso. Or try the pastor, which is tender and scooped in smoky hunks that are a bit sweet, minimally saucy. There is also the always helpful campechano—a taco filling combo of the eater’s own calculus, for those who can’t decide. Chorizo and asada is a personal favorite. But they even have hot dog on the meat list here, so a choose-your-own adventure might be endless.
Find it: Near the corner of First and National.
10. Taqueria Buenavista
Despite consistency woes, and worse, a reliance on lettuce-and-tomato taco topping sacrilege, this rolling outpost of the West Allis taqueria deserves much matchmaker credit for my introduction to this verde salsa, a comforting friend now oft-found about the Southside taqueria scene. The emulsified sauce is a spicy viscous goo: part oil, part cream, plenty of green pepper capsaicin zing and a whole lot of soul. It can perform the soft miracle of making dry pollo good, or further enhance a stewy birria that is by itself a saucy hangover comfort blanket. Really anything at the spot—regularly stopped suggestively outside of the Piggly Wiggly, seemingly nudging, prodding, asking, “Why cook yourself?”—is mostly canvas for the bite-back salsa.
Find it: Outside the Piggly Wiggly on S. Chase Ave (3135 S Chase Ave)
9. Las 7 Estrellas
Even love for the singular offering of albondigas couldn’t sell me on any exceptionalism at the brick-and-mortar branch of this new-ish Bay View spot. Then the truck popped up nearby and seemed aggressively approximate to Buenavista—a decidedly unchill encroachment of competition. Nonetheless, there is our local Home Depot, and there are Saturday to-do lists, and there is a unique “order ready” system that finds a siren wailing once your number is up. Ringing like Pavlov’s perro, it is an indicator that it’s time to get your fingers greasy, the cuticles a bit burnt, especially by way of pambazo. This is a soft-bunned bruiser of a sandwich, the bread of which is dunked in fire-y hot sauce, griddled and then lined reasonably with meat, lettuce, crema. The salty chorizo, or a saucy, pineapple-flecked pastor are ideal.
Or there is tripa, cabeza, lengua—more proletariat cuts for less Americanized palates. No matter the filling, the bun will bleed delicious salsa onto your fingers, staining skin, implicating eaters, making it obvious you did more than make a productive run for yard work supplies.
Find it: 150 W Holt Ave
8. Taqueria El Paso
The good guy in the white vs. black hat rivalry in the First and National zone of moving taco trucks, El Paso belies its caricature—brown-skinned man in a sombrero and pancho, holding a burrito, grinning under a mustache amongst desert and cactuses—with smiles, a welcome picnic table, and even friendlier meat cuts. Look no further than the alambre. It’s a gargantuan two-meal Styrofoam plate of melty queso, variably crisped asada bits, salty, suggestive bacon hunks, onions, peppers and beefy, grounded flavor scoops for personal taco crafting. Spike it with the spark plug orange-red salsa, which also works well with a dry, salty, scrappy take on pastor.
Bold (or possibly too drunk) Walker’s Point feasters might combine these two and venture a stomach for the El Paso Special: steak, pork, bacon, onions, peppers, mushrooms, cheese and pineapple. It is basically like an alambre on steroids, which is a dish that is already itself like a Mexican skillet on HGH. Maybe American obesity is a bit inspired after all.
Find it: 551 S First St
7. El Tapatio
Speaking of American appetites, a white person order, the Taco Bell-ification of our view of Mexican cuisine, the oft-called “gringa” is a popular truck option mistakenly easy to sleep on. It’s basically a quesadilla—a large, griddled flour tortilla lined with gooey cheese and whichever meatstuff. Simple, basic, here it is—the everything you want in one bite, especially with the asada. Deep, greasy, fatty grilled steak flavor makes close friends with half-soft queso. Smoky rojo elevates it well beyond the realm of packaged “Fire” sauce and into something that reeks of an old country. The same can be said about the pastor, another in the line of adobo-seasoned pork offerings, one with murmurs and rumors of pineapple, something sweet, something smoky, chopped and sauced to the point of making salsa optional, the taco package happily sassy as is. It’s maybe the best such version around, and it is offered generously, heaping.
It’s a truck along the lines of Charrito—in fact, they also have four roaming kitchens about town and a minimal menu. But you can tell by the milling eaters huddled across the street from Koz’s: these are the basics cooked slowly, carefully, everything seemingly done, welcomingly, much better than it has to be.
Find it: 4 trucks total, found here, here, here and here.
6. Mazorca Tacos
Sometime early next summer, when the troves of “Actually, Milwaukee’s Not So Bad” headlines make their way through the national press to preview how to spend time here during the Democratic National Convention, there will certainly be an article fronted by a picture of Mazorca Tacos. Perched against not-quite gentrification—the shell of Camacho’s bar and a discarded sidewalk syringe loomed over a recent Sunday afternoon visit—it is still adorably cutesy, the taco truck made for Instagram. It’s almost worth an eyeroll. As a tree grows in Brooklyn, so a food truck grows in a gentrifying warehouse district. The tacos themselves also come overly-crafted, like a contoured Mexican experience: the pastor is pre-topped with avocado cilantro salsa, the birria with pickled red onions, the bistec is marinated in “Wisconsin beer” and topped with pintos and tomatillo salsa. It’s a tad unfortunate, a bit prefab-feeling. Especially as the two fire-colored squirt bottles of salsa and endless to-go containers pack so much arbol sizzle, creamy piquant buzz.
It’s also not that unfortunate, because said tacos are indeed bursting with vitality and high-end flavor. The pastor, especially, oozes with adobo essence and juicy grilled-ness, the birria is a perfect texture template for an overly avuncular orange salsa pour, the steak strips are smartly seasoned and thin and unimpeachably beefy.
On a true crawl of Southside streets, amidst español-only ordering, a trek here can seem like selling out, like going Pirates of the Caribbean. But then you walk out past the patio lights and bumping “Wonderwall,” and you realize you’re sucking air, craving water and wondering why your mouth is still on fire. Serious tacos come in many backdrops.
Find it: 209 S First St
5. El Comedor
The on-paper listing of the aptly named Torta Suprema here is absurdly gluttonous, borderline-stunt-ish: ham, mozzarella, chorizo, milanesa. That’s not a choice of meat types, it is the lineup. Additionally, unannounced, coming off the bench, there are refried beans. Then you see it, scoop it, can’t stop. And you realize it’s actually an exercise in restraint, with thin, minimal layers of each ingredient laid carefully atop one another, all beautifully constructed for integrity, neatness, consistency, the whole beast cut in half for easy, no-fallout management. Of course, it is still absurdly gluttonous. It is two kinds of pig—crumbly, greasy chorizo and fatty golden ham slices, with chicken—golden-fried strips of barely-breaded breast, all tied together with stretchy, melty virgin-white mozzarella gliding throughout, every bite contrasting soft and crisp, as the fluffy bolillo has been gently charred both inside and out and lined with mayo, lettuce, tomato.
There’s, also, somehow, a Cubano, the same sandwich with American cheese and turkey added to the fertile fray. And, according to handwritten cardboard signs, there are occasional special mole offerings. But Comedor is definitely, foremost, the rolling torta king, the truck on 13th and Hayes good enough to make it forgettable that their brick-and-mortar big brother is mostly known for its pastor. Which, when you try it here, is a succulent, juice-running, half-crispy shimmering pork take, delicious and welcoming of fiery red or fresh green salsa. No matter though, the most important impression you’re taking away is really that other half of torta, for the fridge and then for a brilliant late-night snack.
Find it: Corner of 13th St. and Hayes St.
4. La Flamita
Flamita might serve the greasiest chorizo around, the finest, tiniest dice of any meat on any menu and the most over-stuffed of all taco truck tacos. There’s also a big, bad alambre—an asada, bacon, cheese, pepper and onion mélange of heft and farmland machismo.
But on Sundays between 3 p.m. and midnight, when pastor tacos are $1, a crowd gathers and knives are being sharpened by big laughing men glimpsed through the little window, it’s trompo time on 20th and National. It’s the only time of the week they use the vertical spit of Lebanese, Greek and Turkish descent. As if coming to life for everyone else’s day of rest, it wields slithery wedges of reddish-brown and amber, the half-charred pig flavor dribbling juice, the tacos decked with huge wedges of pineapple and splashed liberally with onion and cilantro.
Some bites come on like bacon, some like semi-fatty shoulder. Taste profiles bounce between rich, fruity, bracing and, if you’re doing it right with the orange sauce, tingly and blood-flowing. They are little, six-bite nuggets of life affirmation, pillowed by double-corn layers, gleaned for less than it costs to park Downtown for an hour-and-a-half.
Find it: Corner of 20th St. and National Ave.
3. Marta’s Tamales
There is no way to half-ass tamales. A labor-intensive dish of corn husks, steam and up-at-dawn love, it would be like your doctor just sort-of practicing medicine. That’s why if it’s in the name and the taco-slinging game, there’s certainly a legit pedigree. So it is with the Christmas-lighted truck on Cesar Chavez amid the cacophonous intersection by El Rey. You can tell the seriousness from the crumbly, heavily seasoned, ground-beefy asada and from an inspired, neatly shredded, soupy barbacoa, rich with faraway spices and earthy, funky, sweet-savory balance. Big appetites and food pic takers will be drawn to the pambazo. The chorizo and potato mix is especially hearty, filling and crisped with lettuce wedges—the entire drowned roll concoction crowned with a sea of crema and a little mountain of crumbly cotija. It’s a sandwich basking in photo op. Then there are elotes—the favorite Mexican street dish of corn smeared in mayo, cream, cheese and spicy pepper seasoning—served either on the cob or, for those dainty or with a too-nice-an-interior to spill queso, in a dish.
And what of those tamales? Bulbous and piping hot, try the puerco, which is composed of tender, pale chunks chock with a potent, red-hot chile pepper mash. It is two-buck brilliance and somehow almost an afterthought.
Find it: 1023 S Cesar E Chavez Dr
2. La Guelaguetza
Rick Bayless once famously opined that the best taquerias are those attached to grocery stores. So it would follow that La Guelaguetza—it’s extra-long frame situated outside El Rey at 13th and Burnham—is a natural extension of the always-bustling, teeming, slightly stressful emporium of meats, seasonings, breads and everything that you could possibly imagine inside. Pig’s feet? Yes. Jewelry? It’s by the checkout counter. Take, for example, the fact that a recent trek found radishes and fresh cucumber offered along the counter salsa bar. It’s as if they belong to a CSA and aren’t sure what to do with all their extra stuff.
Sometimes, though, there is a downright ferocious, onion-habanero, pickled mix. In a world of menu repetition, it’s such small touches that add up and that get you a top-two ranking. It helps that they have a trompo; one of the very few in town. This spit yields pale, red-hued, chopped pork scraps, a touch fatty but beautiful, with whiffs of adobo seasoning, maybe cinnamon and something bright, sweet and indefinable in each balanced bite. There is also a deep-stewed, earthy barbocoa, with intense, unrelenting beefiness. There are (maybe, if you know how to ask) homemade tortillas, and, of course, there is an alambre. It is best as a piping, queso-gooey gumbo of steak, chorizo, crumbly bacon bits, peppers, onions and the subsequent happiest grease slither of DIY-taco mix possible. Or try one of their specials that might team ham with pastor. Either way, it’s sided by a baked potato—seemingly as that something extra to give the feel of going to grandma’s house, her wanting to show that she loves you very much, wants you to eat and to get fat.
Find it: 1430 W Burnham St
1. Taqueria La Costena
There is a filter on Instagram—Nashville, Ludwig, whatever—that brightens, lightens, accentuates, makes pop all the colors and vividness of the happy summer days of life. The tlayuda here, once you pour some thick smoky rojo salsa atop, seems to exist in this doctored state of beauty all on its own: dazzling green avocado, pristine and pure crema, milky queso, sheeny tomato and lettuce flecks—the whole thing framed by the earthy tones of a griddled tortilla and pinto beans. Red, white and green, it looks like the Mexican flag: waving loudly, begging to be scooped up one triangle wedge at a time, folded like a New York-style slice and devoured. Top it with perfect, crumbly chorizo (like a little but ambitious cousin of piquant pepperoni) to complete the Mexican pizza experience. It’s a destination-worthy dish. But really, the fake-wood-paneled, slant-roofed mini-house is more, much more, than just an adorable tlayuda outpost between St. Luke’s and the Domes.
They also have a specific take on pastor: Drier but still liberally seasoned, small-diced and with half-blackened bits, the result yielding moist, just-grilled flavor that allows the meat itself to shine. The same can be said about the smoky, beefy barbocoa. Or even the asada—so often rote, so often a shoulder-shrug of a meat offering—here its tender, juicy and seems to fully reveal a careful hand at the flattop. It’s indicative of a subtle touch, a deft hand, offered with friendly delivery. Everything here is more than enough reason to stop the car while cruising 27th Street. It’s actually inspiration to get in the car, to get a car-meal, in the first place.
Find it: 27th St and Cleveland Ave
Interested in more dining roundups? See our Dining Lists page here.
