I think it was the blatant Mexican-ism that drew me here. Or rather, I thought there was an outside chance that had Northern Mexican style carne asada. Now, just so we keep our terminology straight: carne asada is simply grilled beef. But in the experience I’ve had with Mexican cooking in the Southwest US and Northern Mexico, carne asada tends to be something very specific.

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Is it wrong that my heart starts to pound when I see a little taco cart surrounded by ravenous locals? Is this unnatural? Shifting my weight nervously from foot to foot as I stood in front of Tacos Quicho’s I found myself puzzled by these questions. What was it about this cart? There were like four mother’s with kids in strollers and several men all jostling for position. There was one woman inside cooking all the food and taking care of the transactions. She wore a plastic glove on her food handling left hand and kept her right hand bare for handling money and paper plates. I saw several delicious looking tacos served up before I was able to belly up to the window. I ordered a single carnitas taco because it was first on the list of specialties.

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Fresh off the 7 train, I spotted a sign that read “Tacolandia” and I just couldn’t help myself. Maybe it’s my Southern Californian upbringing, but when a place as any kind of “land” appendage (in English or otherwise) I’m mysteriously drawn to it, sure that it can’t be all bad.

Tacolandia was no exception. Located on the corner of a strip mall, it’s a small kitchen space with an adjoining dining room. At 2:30 the place was about half full. There were teenagers picking out songs on the jukebox, the music going so loud I could barely hear the waitress over the din. I ordered the steak, and she went to work, throwing a fresh batch of beef on the grill and chopping it and turning it with the metal spatula.

Well, this won’t be so bad, I thought. At least the meat will be hot. The condiments appeared to be in order. She turned to ask me if I would like grilled onions mixed in with the grilled steak. No, I would not.

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This place is right across the street from Maria Hernandez Park, which from what I can tell is in a hispanic-dominated part of Bushwick. In fact, it reminded me a lot of Echo Park. It’s amazing how little you have to walk to get out of hipster town. I’m literally five blocks from the subway and suddenly there is a conspicuous lack of coffee shops and tiny restaurants serving “creative” American food.

Anyway, this place kind of surprised me, considering I stumbled into it completely ignorant. I had no idea what to expect, and in LA, that pretty much meant you were either going to be blown away or get food poisoning. Or both. A friend of mine discovered the hard way that they aren’t mutually exclusive. But that’s a different story for a different time, as my friend Liz would say.

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I’d heard about Tortilleria Los Hermanos from several people (including a few native Californians) so in spite of the fact that the NYTimes likes it, I figured it was as good a place as any to start my search.

The first thing I saw when I walked up was a woman inside the window grilling meats, always a good sign. The factory itself isn’t big, and the dining area is really just two folding tables pushed together to form a kind of bar where everyone sits. I squished down in between two people really involved with what appeared to be tortas. After waiting for a couple to be served, I ordered one carne asada taco and a chorizo.

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