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:

Rate My Pupusa: Elsy’s

2893 Mission Street, San Francisco CA

Elsy’s doesn’t have it easy. They share a wall with La Taqueria, one of the city’s most celebrated eateries. Christmas decorations hang above the door, meaning either their employees are all very short (sad) or they can’t afford a step ladder (sadder). And they specialize in pupusas, the Jan Brady of Latin American cuisine.

But check your pity at the door, because Elsy’s will knock your socks off. Now I didn’t grow up in El Salvador. And neither did my grandma. But I can imagine that if she did, these pupusas would be exactly like the ones she made.

Freshly pounded masa de maiz served as the exoskeleton for my order of revueltas (pork, cheese, beans) and loroco y queso (a flowering bud from Central America—thanks Wikipedia). While pupusas can get soggy in the middle, Elsy’s were perfectly crisped. The revueltas achieved a balance of ingredients that must have taken generations to master. It lasted no more than 48 seconds on my plate. The loroco y queso was essentially a cheese stick reincarnated in pancake form. I had a couple of scares where the cheese made a break for my esophagus. Nearly choked to death. But it was worth the risk.

Price is never a concern in pupuserias. My bottle of Coca Cola cost almost as much as the meal. What can make or break a pupusa are the accoutrements. Elsy’s curtido (pickled cabbage salad) was superb, bringing a welcomed vinegar crunch to the cheesy oblivion. And the salsa was, hmmm, convenient? It came in a squeeze bottle. Not much else to say. I’ve found pupuseria salsa to be the same from one place to the next. Red. Mild. Runny. Yet somehow absolutely necessary on each bite.

Upon finishing my plate, I passed out and slipped into a vivid dream state. I was back in my non-existent Salvadorian childhood at la casa de mi abuela. She was, as always, making pupusas in the kitchen. I sat at her feet and listened to stories of bloody revolutions, aching heartbreaks, and jaguars. A rooster crowed and I awoke with the rating:

3.5 out of 4 Dios Mios