Las Quatro Milpas

Sometimes you get spoiled. You know something is good, even great, but you—you, in your blithe assurance—you go groping about for better. And as you do your memory of the original fades slightly. What you’ve taken for granted you’ve allowed yourself cut in a shallower relief, you fool!

My father-in-law taught me many things but one that I’d forgotten was the greatness of Las Quatros Milpas. Yes, greatness. As Dr. Burrito, I’ve eaten far and wide—this is my duty—and I’m oftener than not satisfied with what I’ve found. In a general sense, I couldn’t be happier, for nowhere else does the burrito so thrive as my hometown. And yet I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten as the mouthfuls amalgamated in my feeble brain just how great Quatro Milpas is and how it stands like a beacon above the general noise.  

Perhaps I’m a bit enthusiastic. My father-in-law died and I miss him. I thought of him as I stood in the long line and how he stood in the same line not long ago with the same expectant giddiness we may call hunger. Furthermore, I was out with friends on a Friday lunch date. The sun was shining. Barrio Logan glittered. Yes, and the experience was nonetheless and all the more riveting.

I said the experience. We fool ourselves to speak only of the food. Food is a marker, a medium. We break bread. We talk. We notice the others’ sidelong glances in the line as our bellies anticipate the order. We watch the woman pat tortillas perfect among the blue concrete walls. We sit at picnic tables with strangers and share a moment of our lives. But, to isolate the food, insofar as I may, it was, it was …

And not to kick an old dead horse carcass but this is precisely the sort of Mexican-American food that comes only out of San Diego and which must be contrasted with that other prototype, the Mission-style burrito with its frills and filigrees.

So what do you get? Pork and pork fat. Lots of it. It pops on the stove and cackles. Pig skin floats in the salsa, which itself is in no small measure fat. It holds together the flour of your tortilla. There are other meats but, again, that’s what you get, meat, a little iceburg lettuce, a little queso cotija. If you require vegetable matter, there it is on a tray with spoons beside it. Help yourself to onions, cilantro, wedges of lemon. Just don’t dally. The line behind you surges. This is serious, man!

But I should begin again. The food is scrumptious and heavy. You will not leave hungry. The beans are served with or without chorizo. The rice is cooked to a pulp. Both come in a bowl with a folded napkin of the best frickin tortilla you’ve ever eaten.

The burritos aren’t huge. They don’t need to be. The carnitas are not fatty at all. They are perfect: slightly moist, slightly crispy, pungent. The tacos again begin with a great corn tortilla that is then fried crispy with your choice of meat inside and dabbed with lettuce and cotija. To eat here again was to be reminded.

My friends—Lizard and the Bozedozer and the Lizard’s carry-aboard, Moccasin—were soon sated in the blue-walled rooms. We shall return, friends.

Oh, and I met a fellow connoisseur, Clark the Dude, who could just as easily be Dr. Burrito with his brimming passion for Mexican-American food. Thank you for the suggestions, my friend. I take heed. 

So go, but if you do know that the line is long and hours of operation short. They do what they do, and they do it well. If you don’t like it, then you won’t like it: Shuffle along, pal. There’s a place for you, maybe.

Next!

 1857 Logan Ave. (where the long line is)