Tacos Al Pastor: The Bite That Rewired My Brain

How one taco al pastor rewired my senses forever — a story of memory, flavor, and first bites.

Every bite, a letter in the alphabet of flavor, texture, and scent. Photo: Diana Pérez

Taco Tuesday is not my thing. As Marcello Hernandez once said, "you guys" — meaning gringos—invented it. (I can also confirm we don’t observe “Meatloaf Martes.”) But I'll observe this Taco Tuesday by telling you about the greatest food I’ve ever tried: tacos al pastor, a moment that lives in my memory for the sheer joy I experienced with that first bite.

The Night Everything Changed

I must’ve been around fifteen the first time I tried tacos al pastor — which is wild, considering it rewired my brain in a single bite. My childhood and teenage summers were spent at my grandmother’s house in Morelos, Mexico. Normally, our late-night ritual included hanging around in the open street with the neighborhood kids. Traffic was minimal. Streetlights didn’t exist.

We always had a merienda before bed — gorditas or picadas fresh off a neighbor’s comal, something hot, rooted. But one night, for reasons I’ll never know (divine intervention? a craving?), my grandma handed me a few pesos and said: Go get tacos al pastor. A simple suggestion. A life-changing directive. 

A Performance of Fire, Flavor, and Pineapple

We walked to El Carboncito, a taqueria I’d never noticed before—closed during the day, glowing open at night. I ordered three—maybe four—because restraint had no place here. 

Twelve seconds of pure taquero choreography. Shot by me at El Vilsito, CDMX.

The tortillas were tiny, practically palm-sized, and the taquero worked them like a symphony conductor. In his left hand, he held two tortillas like cymbals. In his right: a knife, swift and deliberate. He shaved meat from the trompo with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgeons or magicians. Every now and then, he’d flick the gas up just slightly, charring the outer layer of pork until it crisped and curled at the edges. Then came the finale: a slice of pineapple, razor-thin, cut mid-air and caught mid-spin.

Never had I seen such a performance. New York City, where I lived most of the year, was the land of hot dogs, pretzels, Blimpies (IYKYK), and bagels. Morelos, my summer camp, was the land of gorditas, tortas, cecina, and chorizo, among many other earthly delights. But tacos al pastor? What were these tacos that came with a performance?

I visited El Vilsito long before it earned press buzz and even took a chef (or two) to this magical place. I didn’t need the byline—I had the taco. Photo: Diana Pérez

Each night, I’d watch the local women make gorditas for our order — slapping and shaping the masa by hand, filling with requesón or chorizo, ladling melted manteca (lard) over the steel comal while simultaneously fanning the low fire underneath. It was elegant, captivating choreography that never missed a beat. But what this man — this taquero — was doing, and topping it with fresh pineapple in the flick of a wrist? That performance was full-on bravado—primal, vibrant, demanding attention.

The Bite That Rewired My Brain

For the to-go order, another taquero tucked in grilled spring onions — cambray, I later learned. Slightly sweet, tender, blistered from the griddle. Back home, I squeezed tiny kaffir limes from my grandmother’s tree over the onions, watching the charred ends soak up the sweet-sour juice like holy water. I sprinkled chopped white onion and cilantro over the tacos, picked one up carefully, and took a bite—and my soul briefly left my body.

The pork: crispy, tender, glossy with fat, redolent of spice. Chile de árbol, loud and unapologetic. Guajillo, whispering smoke. A kiss of cumin. Vinegar dancing at the edges. And that pineapple — not just sweet, but sunlit. That absurdly perfect note slicing through the richness like the aching high note in a Manzanero bolero.

That combination used every letter in my alphabet of flavor, texture, temperature, and scent.

Combined with a bite of the charred, lime-soaked cambray onion? Transcendent. When I say this was the greatest thing I’ve ever eaten, I mean it. That combination used every letter in my alphabet of flavor, texture, temperature, and scent. Nothing was missing. The tortilla? Moist with spicy fat, soft yet intact. And this was before NAFTA — when corn still tasted like corn. Nixtamalized yesterday, milled and cooked today.

The Tacos Al Pastor Standard by Which All Tacos Are Measured

I didn’t know food could do that. I mean, I knew food was delicious — I've always loved food and flavors and enjoyed meals with my mom during our weekend jaunts around New York. But I didn’t know a taco could feel like a declaration. My brain short-circuited. What is this? Why have I never tasted this before? How do I make sure this happens again?

For the rest of the summer, I ordered tacos al pastor from El Carboncito every night. No regrets. Not even once. And like one’s favorite slice of pizza is the first one from your local joint, those tacos al pastor have remained the gold standard, the one against which all others after are measured, that make every disappointment sting a little harder — doesn’t it?

This is me, reclaiming Taco Tuesday. Buen provecho.