Lucky Boy Drive-In

There's a soft spot in my heart for Pasadena. It feels like a greener, more metropolitan version of my town while maintaining a minimum of traffic and insincerity seemingly more common to other parts of Los Angeles.

Dat Bacon!

Lucky Boy Drive-In closes at 2am with only 4 hours of downtime before starting back up with their amazing breakfast burritos. These breakfast behemoths are packed with delicious thick cuts of dark brown crispy bacon, and the whole sausage links create a structural integrity not unlike rebar. Hash browns, cheddar cheese, and fluffy eggs assembled like the cook might have made this burrito a million times leaves only the cups of fresh spicy salsa to pour on at your discretion.

There was no way I could finish the burrito, but not for lack of trying. The only disappointment was in myself. Why can I not get all of this in my stomach?

It was so good I went back the next afternoon for a pastrami sandwich. Not for any other reason than I love a good pastrami, and I'm on a constant search for one to beat my all-time favorite here back in Bakersfield. I'm happy to report they don't only make amazing breakfast burritos because this was on point.

Lucky Boy is one in a long line of traditional diners. It can be greasy. It is definitely not healthy, but these flavors and techniques are the backbone of American comfort food.

Chips & Salsa

There's nothing sadder than a cook who thinks he's a chef.

When I sat down to order the Giant Burrito with steak I did not expect the cook to put on a show with the garnish. Two (steamed? boiled?) whole green onions were curled up like a crime scene on top with some sort of red onion minced concoction piled beside it. The acrid smell wafting up from the burrito smelled not unlike a gym bag soaked in bath water.

Lesser reviewers may have given up right here, but I pushed the accoutrements aside to delve in to what looks like, by the inside, a meal with promise.

The steak is perhaps a bit over-cooked and the rice is under-seasoned, but the over-all combination is decent. The onions have impregnated the tortilla, thus my hands, with their stench, but I persevere heaping on the salsa and trying to lose myself inside the burrito where the smell has yet to reach.

Dispersing the ingredients evenly is not one of their strong suits as I am frequently met with gobs of sour cream and bushels of lettuce chiffonade.

The beer is cold and the waitress has a nice smile, but I can't get beyond those damn green onions. Did you lose your sense of smell in a grease fire?

One final note, the chips were of the red and yellow variety and the salsa was more akin to a bland soup. For a place that took the name "Chips & Salsa" one would think they may try and shine in that area. Maybe the time they devote to stewing onions for the garnish they could learn how to fry up some tortillas and make more than one salsa for dipping, but I digress.

At least there's beer. If you drink enough of it, you can probably ignore their shortcomings.

Doctor Strangebreakfast: or how I learned to stop worrying and love poverty

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"Write Now Wednesdays" is the day I take time to explain facets of Burrito Life or expand opinions touched upon in previous articles. This week we begin a series by guest writer Devon Ashby.

So in my early twenties, like most people, I went through a financial trial-by-fire period of not really being able to feed myself properly.

In my particular case, this was due to the trifecta of being unemployed, not wanting to live at home anymore, and not having very good sense about how to manage my money. My roommate and I were mentally and financially coordinated enough never to lack for toilet paper, Diet Coke, cigarettes, or cheap, gut-poisoning liquor products, but a majority of the hot meals we consumed came from the $5 pizza restaurant next to our Laundromat, or out of a box with a big orange 99 cent sticker on it.

Aside from the perennial stand-bys of ramen noodles and pasta, three ingredients were always present in our otherwise threadbare kitchen, and those three staples transformed what could have been a purgatory of darkness, self-doubt, and chronic stomachaches into a magical period of gustatory self-discovery. Those three ingredients were: fresh tortillas, chorizo, and eggs.

Prior to moving out of my parents’ house, I’m pretty sure I was at least introduced to the concept of breakfast burritos. Tragically, however, I have no specific early memories of my experiences with this fateful staple of my transitional adulthood. With aforementioned budgetary constraints mapping out an entirely new grocery template, though, I knew I would have to start getting creative, or resign myself indefinitely to a menu of empty carbohydrates, tinfoil seasoning packets, and processed cheeses. Tortillas and eggs seemed like a no-brainer since they’re two of the cheapest foods you can buy, and with the bulk of the work established, the rest of my grocery list fell rapidly into step. Breakfast burritos became a three-or-four-nights-a-week tradition.

To be continued...

Los Altos

Finding a good burrito within walking distance of the house is like finding a twenty on the ground, so when I found Los Altos on Chester and 2nd I didn't expect them to deliver like they did.

I began with their chorizo breakfast burrito which is a little odd for me because I tend to go with plain breakfast sausage for my first go around, but ham, bacon, and chorizo were the only options.

I tend to shy away from chorizo due to many experiences with burnt brown chorizo bits sopped in bright red grease. Chorizo doesn't change colors like most meats when cooked through, but will change colors when burned. The amount of cooks who either don't know this or choose not to care is baffling.

With this knowledge I interrogated the lady a bit on the quality of their chorizo, and she said confidently it was good but the cook chimed in "it's great" with a tone in his voice like I challenged him to a duel.

It was on. He took his time cooking every ingredient fresh, and the smells coming form the open kitchen were promising, if not intoxicating.

My eyes widened with the first chomp. Everything is in its place. The eggs are cooked down to the little eggy crumbles, but the huge kicker is the chorizo. No grease. No wet tortilla. No shiny hands. Perfect bright red bits mixed into the burrito without being burnt and carrying flavors rare to the world of chorizo BBs.

Around $5 and just as many blocks from my place I found something special. Thank you, Los Altos, for teaching the world the beauty of well-prepared chorizo so close to my house, and now close to my heart.

Rubio's Fresh Mexican Grill

FAFU FRIDAY!!!

Every Friday I review a chain restaurant to incorporate more of the readership into all of the burrito fun. 

Rubio's hails from San Diego, but has setup all along the western United States hocking "fresh mex" ranging from fish tacos to gourmet burritos. 

"Fresh mex" or "new wave Mexican" is an insipid movement particularly common in the US combining traditional Mexican with ingredients reserved usually for haute cuisine. Cilantro infusions, avocado soups, and tomato reductions are applied to accentuate different flavors hidden in simple dishes. 

Of course, Rubio's is still a casual dining experience more akin to fast food than the French Laundry, but the core principles still define what separates this restaurant from your average walk-up. 

I opted for the Burrito Especial with steak and swapped the citrus-rice for more traditional orange party rice. Romaine lettuce, whole black beans, salsa fresca, guacamole, chipotle sauce, and red tomato salsa are also crammed into this burrito making me think one thing: you're trying too hard. 

Don't get me wrong, burrito, you taste fine, but your insecurities are showing with how much you tug my taste buds every which way. There is so much going on it all kind of blends together into one androgynous tongue-numbing thump. No heat. No spice. Just a cacophony of flavors banging loudly all at once. 

Luckily, their salsa bar is mighty, stocked with pickled carrots and jalapenos, four different salsas, golden state peppers, and lemons which allowed me to heat up and contextualize separate sections of my flavor experience. 

Not to sound like a Luddite, but I tend to get lost in less-traditional, high-cuisine burritos that seek to improve upon solid classics. I know my burrito was assembled by a teenager, but they are still approaching the equation wrong by adding chipotle sauces and citrus rices to round out my burrito rather than trusting the steak and salsa to do their jobs. 

Other places have succeeded in bringing something truly unique which elevates burrito culture like the Kogi trucks or expands the definition like Oki-Dogs, but sometimes it can all be too much and nothing is gained, 

...and quick side note: What the hell was up with the side of black pepper bean soup? I had beans in my burrito, and yet you felt the need to give me an entire cup as a side. Thanks?

Oki-Dog on Pico Blvd.

What happens when the people of Okinawa create their own hot dog recipe? Well, they put two inside a tortilla along with some pastrami and fill the damn thing with chili, of course. 

The heart-attack inducing monstrosity known as the Oki-Dog is a very filling, very polarizing food thing.

There are two Oki-Dog’s in LA. The one under review today is the Pico location which some say is less authentic or at least less shady. Fairfax will get its day in the sun, soon. 

This particular spot has a main island where all cash is paid and food is made servicing both the small inside seating area and the outside walk-up. 

I took a bite and felt like I’d spun the chamber of the gastrointestinal gun loaded with a single diarrhea bullet, but the taste was actually not bad. Think Wienerschnitzel with better ingredients. The chili is of the Cincinnati ilk, and I was surprised by how much I liked the tortilla flavor and dry, almost crispy, texture. 

It didn’t feel healthy. It didn’t look nice, but for around $6 I was happy. No intestinal disturbances, only smiles and a full stomach. 

Fairfax, here I come.

Los Cuñados

If there ain't a spit, their al pastor ain't shit.

Alright, good.

My buddy, Hector, tells me there's a spot on Chester near Ming in Bakersfield that sells out constantly, and they are only open for dinner and the drunks. Sounds exactly like the spot I need to get my burrito fix.

Los Cuñados is parked in front of one of those shady rent-to-own outfits in a bedraggled asphalt lot with pot holes and evil on display. The bright halogen lights and neon signs act as a beacon in the night, ferrying wayward souls towards burrito salvation.

For most of my life, I have never been excited by al pastor. I thought of it as a funky carnitas substitute because I didn't know, nor had I had, better. Then D took me to Tacos Leo in Los Angeles, and the whole world of Middle-East meets Southwest opened up for me.

Al pastor directly translates to "shepherd-style" referring to the shawarma technique brought over by Lebanese immigrants. Shawarma involves spit-grilling meats and slicing off the outer-layers to fill your vessel of choice.

The guys manning the truck hooked it up fat with a super tasty burrito. There is a good amount of chilis and spices used on the meat, but not over-powering like I'm chewing on a chili mango sucker. I heavily employed both the red and green salsas not for lack of flavor but because both are so good. Other fixings like lemons, carrots, onions, and radishes are also available.

I'm not sure I needed another reason to drink then eat burritos, but I'll take it. If you are looking for authentic al pastor in Bakersfield, you'd be hard-pressed to find a better spot.