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.