It’s been years since my last Street Foodie column in Desert Companion. But I’ve been nurturing an idea — a desire — over days, weeks, and months. During my evening drives through the city, out of the corner of my eye, I see them in shopping centers and llanteras parking lots: little white or red canopies, griddle steam and grill smoke wafting into the ether, small crowds gathered around. The rapid proliferation of street-vended cuisine over the last two years finally hooked me. On a fall Friday, just before twilight, I set out to immerse myself in their fare.
My first stop was at Tacos Pasadita, in the heart of Spring Valley. In the shadow of a defunct dollar store, a small queue led to a tent-covered table outfitted with an upright propane burner that was blistering stacked pork with the roar of a taxiing jetliner. A griddle sat close at hand, producing perfect tortillas. As I lined up, I was rendered ravenous by the scent of brisket, tripe, and chorizo, simmering in a massive pan, awaiting taco-fication. Requisite aguas frescas beckoned, from their beehive tubs.
The cashier spoke to me in muffled Spanish through his COVID mask, unaware that I am the kind of brazen gringo who lines up at a taco stand with the Spanish-language ability of a confused middle schooler. A comely salt-and-pepper bearded gentleman, Julian, assigned himself as my translator, telling me the cashier was asking if I wanted a drink. I didn’t. Julian informed me that he drove from Henderson to eat at Tacos Pasadita, going on to relay that the gentlemen running this spot were from Mexico, new to the valley, and that they hoped to grow this first location to a brick-and-mortar operation. Julian explained this stand as an L.A. phenomenon, of which I am more than aware. It struck me that this may be the only thing the City of Angels has exported to Las Vegas in recent years that I am happy to celebrate.
As for the tacos themselves, I got brisket and al pastor. The brisket hit my tongue like a Mack truck of soft, thick beef, fat satiating some ancient desire. The al pastor was as good as (if not better than) that of Las Vegas’ best-loved brick-and-mortar taco shops, with deep aromatic tones and a light sweetness to its char. A touch of cilantro and onion garnish cut down the stout porcine flavor.
I drove on, noting that the city’s southwest region appears devoid of this form of vending. (I spent a disappointing hour circling the area with nary a food truck sighting). The east side does not suffer such a deficit, however.
As the evening deepened, I parked at Tacos El Cejas on North Lamb, for a spot of quesabirria. The cooks there made an excellent version of this gut gurgler — a tortilla stuffed with beef, stewed in a tomato-based au jus, smothered in cheese, and grilled to perfection. Over the last three years, birria (in varying degrees of quality) has saturated the valley, delivered by taco trucks and permanent locations alike. When it comes this fad, Tacos El Cejas delivers.
Just around the corner at a nondescript stand, I procured what’s loosely referred to as a danger dog — a hotdog wrapped in bacon, smothered in queso fresco, ketchup, mustard, pickle relish, guacamole, and chorizo. (I asked them to leave the chorizo off mine because, ya’ know... I don’t want to overdo it.) Once this bad dietary decision was in hand, I gobbled with gusto, turning minutes of waiting into seconds of eating. The line here was long, and rightfully so: The blend of Mexican ingredients with East Coast garnish was a tribute to West Coast multiculturalism. From the perspective of an East Coast transplant, who has a soft spot for the America meat tube, I will take the sensuous vulgarity of a danger dog over any of your regional sausages. There is hardly a finer late-night
culinary debauchery — even more so when coupled with a responsible amount of liquor.
I was glutted, yet still feeling incomplete. So far, I’d traveled through a taco paradise, but there had to be something different to try. I found it on Eastern and Searles, a small food truck in gloss black. Yoi Roll was a pleasant surprise in the mobile dining universe. Serving sushi rolled by hand — in simple styles such as the California roll — it offered distinct protein options, including steak or shrimp. You can get the rolls deep-fried or regular; either way, the flavor and quality were finer than I expected to find in a parking lot after 10 p.m.
It was time to retire. That night, as I lay my head down, belly churning with delight, I wondered how Southern Nevada had gotten such a wonderful saturation of street vendors. I dreamt of state codes, contention, and over complicated bureaucracy.
When I woke, I knew my work was not finished … I didn’t even waste time showering in my haste to get to my car and find what had been missing. The previous evening’s romp had been satisfying, yes, but I needed more — or in this case, Mo’s.
In the parking lot of the legendary grocery store Mario’s Westside Market, I found Los Angeles transplants Kevin and his partner, Marilyn, serving barbecue — beautiful rib tips, brisket, and the ever-elusive beef ribs, smoked thoroughly and gently sauced. On the side were collards and sweetened yams, the whole soul food package, right down to the Styrofoam cup of mac and cheese.
This, for me, was the crown jewel of my street food quest. Great barbecue is not easy to find, and even harder in these Las Vegas streets. This city has changed in the last few years, with new stadiums being built, classic casinos imploded, and other developments that longtime locals could do without.
Amid that shifting tableau, the recent uptick in street food is a comforting change. To know that a quality dish is just around the corner day or night is exciting, as are new expressions of our culture and cuisine.