Rate My Pupusa: El Zocalo

I’m typically not one to boast, but I do my fair share of auto maintenance. Brake light replacement. Fluid upkeep. Full wax jobs. It helps keep hair on my back.

Last Saturday I woke with the Taurus on my mind. She was about 10,000 miles overdue for a new air filter and I needed to end the negligence. So I brushed my teeth, put on jogging pants, and walked to Pep Boys.

On my route was El Zocalo, a veteran of the San Francisco pupuseria circuit with solid street cred. Despite it being 10AM, I decided to put my air filter business on hold and get my taste buds wailed upon. A portly waiter greeted me with complimentary chips and salsa—a nice touch. Problem is the salsa was hot. I estimated it to be the exact temperature of human blood—98.6 degrees—and just as appetizing.

Wanting enough food to hold me over until dinner, I ordered the Plato Tipico—two pupusas, a Salvadorian enchilada, and a mystery item called pastelito. Now if this is a “typical plate” for Salvadorians, I image the entire nation is motionless for hours after meals. Not like the sexy Spanish siesta. I’m talking Class-A drug overdose. The jukebox kicked on and my plate dropped. It was time to bailar.

First up was the Salvadorian enchilada, which is a bit of a misnomer since it is essentially a tostada. The extraordinarily tender carnitas played nice with curtido, grated cheese, and hard-boiled egg for a pleasurable crunchy experience. Made me forget about the blood salsa.

Next I took on the duet of pupusas, one loroco y queso and the other chicharron (fried minced pork). They were solid. And I don’t mean solid like “Solid jam, brotha man!”.  I mean solid like the earth’s crust. Dry. Dusty. Heavy. I half expected to chip a tooth on a dinosaur bone. Atop the pupusas was curtido that tasted like it had been pickling since the Jurassic Period. Somehow I managed to eat more than half of each.

I turned my sluggish fork towards the pastelito, which I could best describe as an egg roll batter bomb packed with potato, pork and peppers. I wish I could tell you how it tasted. I really do. But after two bites my eyes blurred and I started mumbling to myself.

The next thing I know I’m stumbling down Mission Street using a piece of cardboard to shield my eyes from the harsh sunlight. Maybe I paid the bill. Maybe I didn’t. I’m pretty sure I lost a shoe. All I knew for sure is that I wanted to pass out in the gutter and bark at the beautiful people.

If you’ve ever wondered if a plate of food can turn you into a homeless person, the answer is yes. I had aspirations before El Zocalo. I was going to change my air filter. Do laundry. Smile. Live. Instead I spent the day collecting cans and urinating in a pickle jar. My rating matches the number of times someone looked me in the eyes on my walk home:

1 out of 4 Dios Mios: