It only takes one layer—gazing at the Davis Plaza storefront—to realize that El Cebolla Taquería doesn’t exist, contrary to what the red and green letters above the door indicate. And don’t bother asking the pregnant woman who stops peeling tomatillos to take your order what El Cebolla refers to. (My research indicates a soccer player.) She only knows that it should get the feminine article. The restaurant is under new management, she’ll say, after explaining you can sit wherever you’d like.

“We’re really Mi Tierrita, now. Who knows what the old name meant?”

What everyone should know is that the simple taquería and pupusería (likely owned by Salvadorans) is as endearing as Tradewinds Social Club across the street.  If the off-putting exterior of the diver bar opposite Mi Tierrita isn’t a sufficient barrier to its day-saving stiff drinks, then the shopping strip housing the taco joint, a fast-food Chinese shop, a botanica and a gas station ought not prevent you from fantastic pastor, fatty barbacoa, unassuming bistec and lengua sliced in long fingers and cradled by respectable corn tortillas. The accompanying garnishes of grilled onions and a cilantro-white onion mixture are equally good.

But it’s the traditional pastor and two other south-of-the-border specialties that are the genuine attraction at Mi Tierrita. Each of the latter are served in flour tortillas heated on the griddle to the point where layers of the enveloping flatbread begin to peel.

The taco campechano, referring to the Mexican state of Campeche, is a mixture of pastor and carne asada bound by a web of Jack cheese. Salty, nutty and charred flavors alternate with each bite of the papery—and buttery—taco.  It’s only improved by the condiments and the smooth house-made salsa verde.

The taco pirata, a Monterrey, Mexico, specialty of grilled bistec hugged by the same melted white cheese as the campechano, is a simpler nosh. Yet, no less enjoyable.

Each reminded me that we’ll probably never have the diversity of tacos in the U.S. that exists in Mexico. We most likely can’t catch up with thousands of years of history, but we should damn near try. Mi Tierrita serves phenomenal tacos.

When I return, I’ll have the space to sample the tacos al vapor, steamed tacos available few and far between in Dallas. Perhaps I’ll try the pupusas. Let’s just hope they’re as good as the pirata and the campechano.

The yellow, peach and blue restaurant at Jefferson Boulevard and Tyler Street isn’t shy about advertising its daily specials, whether on the windows or a sidewalk board on which the deals are scrawled in permanent marker. Prominent among the announcements is that the flour and corn tortillas are made by hand—not in a press. By hand.

“Platters only,” the woman explained as she patted her hands back and forth demonstrating the method used to shape the tortillas. Unfortunately, I hadn’t ordered any entrées and she told me this nugget of critical information as I was paying my bill.

I knew I should’ve ordered the rajas con queso, I thought to myself. Better yet, another of the house specialties, like quail, grilled or fried with optional salsa roja. The pozole, a hominy stew believed to have originated in Michoacán state, the homeland of Mi Fondita’s owners, was also tempting.

Handmade corn tortillas would have made enjoyable tacos stellar tacos, especially the deshebrada, a diminutive selection tinged scarlet and that elicited beads of sweat at my temples. The chorizo at Mi Fondita is about as perfect as it gets in Dallas—handmade tortillas would make it unquestionable—a throat-coating spicy and nutty antojito far from the desiccated pebbles wrapped in cracked (yet greasy) yellow corn tortillas so often accepted as classic.

My barbacoa was a velvet rendition punctuated by fat—good—but it flirted with mildness. Although my first bite of the lengua was dominated by gristle, the remainder of the taco was a grassy delight.

I had intended to choose the asado de puerco, another of Mi Fondita’s signature dishes, and thought I had. However, when I asked the women who had brought the order to the table, she corrected me. Oh well. Not having the asado in my initial meal gives me cause to return to Mi Fondita, housed in a former hair salon, that and the rajas. I must have rajas.

Amid construction, industrial workshops and medical office buildings sits the Taco Pronto Café, a greasy spoon with house-made flour tortillas and specialties like spam and beans. A wood-carved portly, bearded man, tattooed with the years of greetings and messages from customers and adorned with religious paraphernalia stands just inside the entrance. It’s the kind of eating establishment that even when frantically busy is a place where one can take a load off, sip coffee and decompress with comforting tacos, maybe menudo.

Although we didn’t request the stomach soup, my family did order the fresh flour tortillas the waitress recommended. “The corn tortillas are store-bought. Go with the flour.” They transformed what could have been mediocre tacos into meritorious ones packed with stick-to-your-ribs goods, particularly the long list of breakfast tacos served all day.

The chorizo and beans mixture was an ugly block of piquant and warming protein. Mellow ground beef  was presented in a fried-to-order taco shell, garnishes held by request of my son, whose preference lean toward “strong tacos.” While he enjoyed his early lunch, my wife, mother-in-law and I were downright impressed by the bites we sneaked. The crunchy beef taco at the Taco Pronto Café, with its wavy edges and striking snap—is what a crunchy taco should be. It’s the standard-bearer. It’s glorious. It alone makes a trip to the Medical District restaurant worth it.

Our barbacoa was a rich collection of shredded beef and our lengua tacos were grassy in flavor and soothing. The chorizo and egg was bright morning starter filled with ingredients that were fated to marry. However, not all was superlative. The brisket taco was just that: a slice of overly chewy beef with soggy bark dressed in a tight-fitting cloying red sauce and wrapped in a tortilla of uneven thickness. Large chunks of meat in sweet gravy characterized the pork guiso, also available in beef.

While perfection wasn’t found everywhere during our meal of two-dollar tacos, what was evident was the type of food that comes with experience. Taco Pronto opened in 1990 but not at its current location. Originally, the Tex-Mex dinner sat a block up Harry Hines in a yellow shack next to a mechanic’s garage. A portrait of the original site hangs above the cash register, a classic car parked out front.

The present address might not have the patina of its predecessor, but it finally fits into its shell—it’s where the business should be—much like a gangly teenager eventually fits into his body. And the Taco Pronto Café does a body good.

Nearly two years ago, the corner unit at 525 E. Jefferson Boulevard, formerly a furniture store, had windows blocked by craft paper and a sign promising El Pueblo was coming soon. I watched for months as construction progressed until the restaurant was ready to serve customers and—for some unknown reason—waited a few more months to visit the restaurant. I shouldn’t have done that. I had deprived myself of a worthy addition to the east end of Jefferson, one offering marvelous carnitas tacos. Why I waited until now to write a review is anyone’s guess. El Pueblo is one of the few Mexican restaurants I patronize often and have made it a stop on a taco tour of East Jefferson joints, just for its carnitas.

Every bite of the pork fried in lard was crunchy, salty and silken, a sight to behold in soft, bumpy yellow corn tortillas fresh enough to make a destructive oil bath unnecessary. Staring down at the strips of mahogany, sienna and black coursing through the filling it was obvious, here was taco beauty. If only the tortillas were fluffy and irregularly shaped handmade rounds.

The lengua taco’s flavor hinted of being cooked in the same delightful substance that launched the carnitas toward absolute perfection, interrupted with creamy right angles of fat and crust.

A chile-speckled rendition of barbacoa was amped up by cool salsa verde and a spritz of limejuice. The charred, cadmium-orange pastor with pineapple and onion was a pleasant counter to the carnitas and lengua, while the chorizo was a sunset-red collection of sausage. It’s a fine way to end a meal at El Pueblo, home to superlative carnitas.

I’m beginning to re-think my list of Dallas’ top taco joints, thanks to Los Torres Taquería , a family-owned spot that opened in June. The restaurant specializes in the cuisine of Sinaloa state in northwest Mexico, serving barbacoa roja de chivo (goat barbacoa seasoned with chiles), birria de chivo (a cauldron of chest-warming goat meat in an orangy-red broth) and chivo tatemado (the roasted equivalent of birria cooked in a large clay pot). They’re available as platters, by the pound as well as in tacos in handmade tortillas, if requested. Request them.

The birria can be a little dry in a taco, but when its gamey, chile-stained threads are nestled in blistered, misshapen fresh corn tortillas, forgiveness is immediate. The tatemado has a more pronounced gamey flavor. It does martial arts training on your cheeks. It’s stellar. The same goes for the wet, congealed cabeza and the carne adobada, soft, marinated pork nuggets. Like its sister preparations, the barbacoa here is fantastic and punctuated with earthy notes but with little of the wild characteristics of the other goat options.

If there’s anything to find fault in at Los Torres, it’s the overly chewy carne asada. Good by itself. Unfortunate when consumed after the plethora of goat.

To one side of the restaurant is the condiment offering an assembly of toppings and condiments. I’m partial to the creamy verde. The throat-ravaging red is another winner. Ignore the free wifi. It’s a distraction, as are the music videos playing on the television above the front door. Consider Los Torres’ hot dog, a bacon-wrapped frankfurter topped with avocado, onions, tomato and a dose of ketchup and mustard treasured as much in Sinaloa as it is in Sonora, the border state to the north. (Locally, Bowery pays homage to the regional snack with the Mexican.)

Attempt a run to Mi Tierrita for its trompoburger after your time at Los Torres. That is, if you can stomach more exquisite Dallas taquería fare.

With a name like Burritos Locos, I didn’t have high hopes for the Grapevine restaurant. Mentally ill donkeys, after all, seem better suited for a margarita-soaked refuge for co-ed buffoonery with a foundation of chile con carne than a restaurant offering solid tacos of suadero, trompo and hidago con cebolla. The latter being liver and onions.

I was pleasantly surprised by Taqueria Burritos Locos, not just because of the quality of the tacos but because finally I was able to enjoy liver and onions, mildly mineral in taste. The birria, however, was dominated by a metallic flavor.

The suadero offered chopped bits of crunchy and soft beef, while our selection of trompo was sliced thinly, bright and pungent. Burritos Locos’ chorizo, which, according to our waitress, is made in-house, is a fantastic choice. Spicy, it draws the insides of your mouth together as quickly as an infatuated couple reunited after spending only one night apart.

By the time I got to the lengua, the meat was cool to the touch. The lomo (rib eye), held in place by a frigid avocado wedge, was a rubbery disaster. Eating it first wouldn’t have made a difference. The carnitas showed no signs of being fried and could’ve used a roll in a saltcellar.

Still, the suadero, trompo and hidago con cebolla make Burritos Locos worth a stop while in Grapevine, especially if you’re in need of a nosh after an event at the Gaylord Texan or nearby Irving Convention Center. I can’t think of much better after a day of geeking out at Dallas Comic Con or beer geekery at Bluebonnet Brew-Off.

Many taquerías looked closed from the street, but I had never seen Rosita’s open, even though my friends at TacOCliff had reviewed it and another friend recommended it. “Trompo tacos done right,” he said of the “Monterrey style spot.” Over a weekend, I drove by to find its neon open sign aglow. In I went.

While I did find excellent trompo, I also found three large paintings of biblical scenes on the north wall: one of the Last Supper depicting Judas contemplating his exit; one of Moses, the 10 commandments in one hand, a staff in the other framed by lightning; and one of the Nativity. Photos of Pancho Villa hung one the opposite wall. As you see above, the signs of such religiosity began on the exterior of the strip-mall taquería.

The menu over the cake display advertised barbacoa, and it turned out to be a mix of cachete and lengua de res (beef cheek and tongue). I didn’t give it a second thought, and added it to my order, along with carne deshebrada.

While the barbacoa was slick and earthy—like a pastureland on a dewy morning—kicked with salt and flecked with chile, and the trompo was bright, cut with savory and sour notes, the deshebrada was a dud. Yes, the tortilla had been fried seconds earlier—a surprise, for sure—but it was brimming with cold, tasteless tomatoes, watery queso fresco and iceberg lettuce atop bland brisket.

That the tortillas were slimy had me doubting that they were made fresh in-house. Fresh, they weren’t, and aside from the unfortunate taco de carne deshebrada, it was the only fault I could find with my haul.

But the having the opportunity to eat Rosita’s barbacoa and trompo was worth it.

Harry Hines Boulevard has a plethora of Mexican restaurants. And I’ve only begun to undertake my exploration of the area, an extension of the Maple Avenue taqueria corridor, first with The Taco Pronto Cafe. Now, with Tacos House.

The two-room family Mexican restaurant wasn’t on the day’s taco itinerary and, truth be told, was chosen for its festive exterior and the promise of barbacoa de borrego (lamb).

The barbacoa de borrego, a weekend special, was pleasantly gamey, although it came with a two-inch-size piece of connective tissue. When I raised it between index finger and thumb, my friend Carol snatched it from me, declaring her love for connective tissue.

Taco House’s beef barbacoa was respectable. It had straightforward stewed flavors and carried enough liquid to not dry it out.

On the other hand, the cabeza was smooth and studded with iridescent fat. I wish the same could’ve been said about the sad carnitas, a sign of things to come. The pastor was soppy and orange with scant char. Thankfully, there was enough of the lamb for a last, positive bite.

When I interviewed La Nueva Fresh & Hot Tortilleria owner Gloria Vazquez for my D Magazine Best Tacos in Dallas feature, I learned that not only has her family been making tortillas since the late 1960s in their home state of Zacatacas, Mexico, but that between she and her siblings the Vazquez clan owns and operates several Dallas-area tortilla factories.

In an email conversation, Vazquez said, “My father, Arcenio Vazquez Muñoz, opened the first Tortilleria in Rio Grande, Zacatecas, in 1968. Currently in Rio Grande there are six locations of which I am the owner of one, they are all still operating the same way they did when my father first opened them. There are [other] locations in the metroplex owned by my two brothers, which have been opened for nine years.” Aside from the Webb Chapel branch, there is a La Nueva Fresh & Hot in Lewisville but what of the other Vasquez family shops? Some of them do business under the name La Nueva Puntada.

Last weekend, my family and I stopped at the Duncanville location after a camping trip. We were filled with excitement and high expectation, and hungry. Like La Nueva Fresh & Hot, the La Nueva Puntada on Camp Wisdom Road isn’t a restaurant, which is contrary to what the website photo gallery led me to believe. Had junior not been drowsy and had our car not been stuffed with camping equipment, we would’ve eaten our tacos in the comfort of it. Instead we took the food home. That wasn’t the best decision. By the time we got home and opened our Styrofoam to-go containers, the tacos had cooled some.

The barbacoa de borrego (lamb barbacoa) was zapped of juices and lacked gaminess. The cachete de res (beef cheek) was an improved but not by much. A generous pour of kicking salsa roja helped, too. The salsa verde salvaged the lengua.

The asado with nopalitos and pork was an adequate guiso. It was straightforward and worthy of a second one.

The guisado de chicharron was among the better I’ve eaten in DFW, not too limp and retaining some of the salty crackling flavor typical of pork rinds. My favorite was the rajas con queso, a firm mass of poblanos and asadero cheese. While it wasn’t too spicy it did have some of the heat and smokiness I expect from rajas. The cheese added a pleasant saltiness.

La Nueva Puntada’s tortillas, made from Maseca and run through a machine that run the length of the open kitchen behind the counter were good. That much is true. However, they weren’t as spongy as those produce by its sister near Bachman Lake. When they cooled, the tortillas also became gummy.The generally poor quality of the tacos might be due to how late in the afternoon we had ordered them and that we had transported them in an air-conditioned car to our house approximately 20 minutes away.

There is also the business’ pedigree. I don’t think it’s unfair to expect more from other members of the Vazquez family. They have a solid reputation and decades of mastery. Perhaps I caught them on a bad day, a bad time. Thankfully, there are other locations. There’s even one near me in Oak Cliff. Will it also stock milk, eggs, cheeses, house-made salsas as well as tortillas de nopales? Will there be a hot box holding flour tortillas? And what about the bags of Tapatio-flavorited Doritos—are there more at the other branches? More importantly, will the Oak Cliff store be better?

After being unable to wait to find out, I went the next day. It’s excellent. On the weekends, customers can order irridiscent carnitas, frayed knots of fried pork at turns crunchy and smooth. The borrego is gamey. The rajas con queso just a little bit spicier. The lengua needed not augmenting. The guisado rojo was fantastic. But the taco that earned the status of excellence was the unassuming frijoles can queso. The simple envelope of fresh corn tortillas bearing smoky refried beans and salty asadero was the best taco I’ve in a while.

I don’t recall how I came across St. Tacos. I do know that from the McKinney taqueria’s Facebook photos, I needed to hightail it north on U.S. 75 at my first opportunity. The pictures showed a trompo, a spread of tacos and salsas so delightfully colorful you could read by them, not to mention the painted roads on St. Tacos’ floor.

Would the journey to St. Tacos end in a reward of cochinita so spot-on the achiote and sour oranges mistook the sides of my mouth for boxing gym punching bags? If I made my way to St. Tacos, would I be welcomed with pork sliced off a trompo like a casino card dealer’s flicks cards to the poor suckers with high expectations? Would the pork bear a protective, happy crust from its slow dance on the trompo and bear evidence of chile and citrus wrap? What of the barbacoa? Would it coat my stomach with stale canola oil?

The answer to the latter questions is a resounding “No!” The rest needs some explaining. St. Tacos’ barbacoa is a solid take on the classic preparation. It’s lean without losing body. There is no excess grease. It’s tried-and-true barbacoa through and through. The cochinita gets high marks for being the pugilist I hoped it would be. During my conversation with Eduardo Muensch, St. Tacos’ owner, the Mexico City native revealed how he prepared his cochinita (extended marinating isn’t involved) and where he learned the recipe (Merida, Yucatan). The bistec wasn’t pulverized, a travesty all too common in many area taquerias.

He explained why I, someone with a rare Catalonian paternal surname, had difficulty pronouncing his surname (it’s Miench.) And as it turns out, Muensch’s great grandfather volunteered to move from Syracuse, New York, to Mexico City, in 1898, for family business. The enterprise, Muensch told me, was candle manufacturing. “They shipped large amounts of church candles and votive lights (similar to what we know today as tea-lights) to Mexico for use in churches obviously, and in miner’s lamps, which were as much needed for lighting as they were a critical safety device, since oxygen is needed for the flame to burn. If the candles went out, the miners knew to get out of the mine.” That the family business involved miners in the late 19^th century is auspicious. The first “tacos” or the food that we now call tacos were eaten by miners and were dubbed taco de mineros (miners’ tacos), after the explosives wrapped in a paper (known as a taco). Evidence suggests these original iterations were actually tacos de canaste (tacos steamed via their own vapor in a basket or other vessel).

Grandpa Muensch, as the man was eventually called, was 21 and single when he emigrated to Mexico. Porfirio Diaz was president. And, Muensch told me, his great-grandfather was to manage “the first candle factory ever built anywhere in Mexico.” He never left.

We talked about the mellow and sweet lengua a la veracruzana, given a gossamer blanket of tomato. We chatted about the trompo. Muensch explained why when I entered his taqueria, the vertical rotisserie was dormant and bearing a thin shaft of dried pork. St. Tacos isn’t busy enough yet to allow the al pastor to turn on the spit without ruining it, so it’s sliced on the trompo in the morning and stored for use throughout the day. Unfortunately, the pork in my taco al pastor was on the dry side. There was plenty of promise in each bite, though. The adobo used to season the pork was clean and tangy with hints of chile. This could be great pastor, if only more people ate at St. Tacos. With excellent lengua and cochinita pibil as well as good barbacoa and no-nonsense bistec, you have every reason to check out St. Tacos. Muensch recommends visiting Friday and Saturday mornings for the best chances at fresh tacos de trompo. And, in case you’re wondering, it’s Street not Saint Tacos, though Muensch won’t correct you. He likes it.

I like where St. Tacos is going.

La Guadalupana’s parking lot on a busy Sunday.

Some are here fresh out of church, fashion cowboy boots reflecting the overhead lights. Some just rolled in for lunch. They’re wearing pressed embellished western shirts, what could pass as First Holy Communion gowns, work clothes, mechanics coveralls, whatever was clean and didn’t require ironing. I’m one of the latter. All of them, including myself, are crowded near a clear patch of counter between the cash register where customers place orders and the steam trays, separated from the full luncheonette counter by glass.

The trays hold guisos, carnitas and barbacoa (both only on weekend), menudo, and several grilled meats in their own juices. These are squeezed into gorditas, get piled on bread for tortas, bought by the pound, poured into small cauldrons and made into tacos.

All of these dishes pack the every table—especially the vermillion menudo—in the dining space of La Guadalupana, a meat market and grocery store in Oak Cliff.

A plate of La Guadalupana’s tacos

Carnitas are soft from sitting in their own juices but not zapped of flavor or moisture. There are signs of once crispy edges. The same couldn’t be said of my taco de deshebrada, a taut bramble of dry meat. The lengua in a light tomato sauce is cubed and slurp-able. It went the fastest. The rajas con queso, however, is a careless serving of slimy chile poblano and a disc of fried cheese with brittle, crimson-dyed edges. In other words, stick with the meat at La Guadalupana. It is, after all, the specialty.

Chief among the meat is the barbacoa, here beef cheek, a mouth-puckering, shredded net of delight. The preparation is also available by the pound for enjoyment at home atop tortillas from La Nueva Puntada, a chain of tortillerias owned by siblings of Gloria Vazquez Martinez of La Nueva Fresh & Hot. Paper-wrapped packs of the corn tortillas are available in the warming case by the store’s cash register. (Word of warning: the cooks at La Guadalupana do not use La Nueva Puntada’s tortillas.) Prepare the tacos as soon as you get home and sniffle a little not only because of the sinus-burning salsa but because you’ll have to wait until the following weekend to get more.

Salsa Limón’s rig.

With locations at La Gran Plaza mall and on Berry Street (across from the original Fuzzy’s Taco Shop, for which they get major props), a roving truck and a new restaurant (AKA Salsa Limón Museo), across from the Modern Art Museum, Salsa Limón has built itself a mini empire in Fort Worth. Dallas is next.

During a Salsa Limón stop in the Harwood District for last Saturday, Ramiro Ramirez, co-owner along with sister, Rosalia, confirmed to Taco Trail that Salsa Limón will have a presence at Jason Boso’s Truck Yard on Lower Greenville, a something Teresa Gubbins vaguely mentioned in a Culture Map story. “We’ll be there as often as possible,” he said of the food truck park whose concept includes rotating vendors. Ramirez also mentioned a desire to have a rig station at Southern Methodist University, his alma mater.

How would Salsa Limón’s offerings—tacos, tortas, quesadillas—especially the signature El Capitan, hold up against Torchy’s Tacos’ edible melees and Rusty Taco’s reliable fare?

One chicken and one al pastor El Capitan taco.

The small but sturdy El Capitan fuses the Ramirezes’ Oaxaca (pickled cabbage, cheese), Mexico City (al pastor) and Tamaulipas (flour tortillas) roots. It’s a pan-Mexican treat worthy of the first order. Of the two I had, the tangy pastor was my favorite. That’s not to say the chicken wasn’t bad. Its subtly didn’t stand a chance against the classic adobo. The cabbaged added crunchy to the small, spongy flour tortillas. While they weren’t handmade, Ramirez said Salsa Limón will soon offer the almost translucent, tricycle-wheel-sized discs typical of northern Mexico and the Rio Grande Valley.

I look forward to that day, especially with Salsa Limón’s mellow, slurp-happy barbacoa. In corn tortillas and with shot of pickled cabbage from the Berry Street trailer, it made for a respectable taco, leagues above anything the potential SMU competitors are serving. Tucked into made-to-order flour tortilla, buttery with a delicate interior and snappy edge, it would give North Texans a taste of a Valley treasure.

It wasn’t planned. Our Austin taco stop on the return trip from a Brownsville taco tour weekend was supposed to be El Taco Rico. Unfortunately, it was closed. El Taquito, a fast-casual chain outpost on Riverside Drive, was a backup-backup choice. We were there for pork, specifically al pastor from a trompo, after consuming almost nothing but beef in the Rio Grande Valley. A couple tacos al pastor from some joint off the highway would be all that was needed to hold us over until we got home.

As it turned it out, I had been to El Taquito before. On my first visit, midway through an East Austin taco crawl, Roberto Espinosa tried to warn me about the fried tripe before I bit down on a substance that was more PVC tubing than edible offal.

But it wasn’t time for tripe. It was time to leave behind cow country and the border for a pork preparation. Except it wasn’t. El Taquito was founded in Tamaulipas, a border state where Matamoros and Reynosa are located. The original of the three Central Texas outposts, the official company line claims, was the first to introduce avocado and queso fresco, common taco garnishes on both sides of the Rio Grande, as topping options to Austin.

I had just come a trip where I ate such tacos almost exclusively. It was time for pork. The trompo, clean and dry, stood tucked away in a corner of the kitchen barely visible from the ordering counter with no sign of it having supported chile-citrus dressed meat. Perhaps it was being held in a warming box. That would explain why the taco al pastor was dry. The pastor-bistec combination of the taco campechana wasn’t any better. The same with the barbacoa. Far better were the beef preparations I ate in the Valley.

The yellow corn tortillas were as coarse as a man’s beard a day after his last shave without the scratchiness, and they were sweet. At least they got the tortillas right.

I headed to Dallas for the weekend with two things in mind: seeing my family and taking a trip to El Globo Taqueria in the heart of North Oak Cliff.

The 28 years El Globo has operated really say something about the quality of its tacos. The tacos here are adorned with cilantro and chopped onions on either flour or yellow corn tortillas. The corn tortilla tacos are served with two tortillas that have been lightly warmed on an oiled skillet, and come with three kinds of salsas: tomatillo and jalapeño, chile de arbol and tomato, and avocado with jalapeño.

The carne asada was tasty and was best complemented by the tomatillo and jalapeño salsa.

The barbacoa was moist, soft and appeared to have been cooked in its own fat. Frankly, you can’t go wrong with meat that increases its own tastiness.

Chicken is usually a standard filling that can go unnoticed. But the El Globo cooks actually put some effort into preparing their chicken. The chicken comes covered in a tomato kind of broth that keeps the meat moist both inside and out. This taco works with both the chile de arbol salsa and the avocado-jalapeño mix.

The al pastor, my favorite at most places, was the most outstanding among the bunch. But I was left on the fence about its taste. I’m used to al pastor being on the savory side with a hint of sweet, but El Globo’s al pastor tacos lean to the sweeter side. Like I said to my brother that night, “It’s delicious, but it’s not really my kind of taste.”

If you’re the adventurous kind, go for the al pastor. You won’t regret it. If the sweetness gets to you, the boldness of the chile de arbol salsa tones the taco down a bit.

El Globo has a very nightclub feel to it because—well, right next door is a small nightclub with disco lights hanging from the ceiling. If you feel guilty about the calories you’ve scarfed down, head next door and burn them off with a few moves on the dance floor.

It’s not difficult to find handmade or housemade tortillas in Dallas-Fort Worth. Tortillerias are plentiful, and any business offering them will make sure you know it. Taqueria Laredo along U.S. Highway 67 in south Oak Cliff is one such establishment. The words are painted large across a retaining wall on one side of a parking lot usually full of cars, pickup trucks mostly. The same wall bears a menu in the form of painted signposts. It’s a fanciful touch that has  Taco Trail written all over it.

As its name suggests Laredo Restaurant serves Rio Grande Valley-style eats, namely barbacoa and flour tortillas with the radius of the wheel from a child’s bike. Those items, and by the looks of the food on tables, pozole,are the hits of the house, available only on specific days at a taqueria whose days of operations are Friday, Saturdays and Sundays. Laredo is a special place.

But not for the tacos in handmade corn tortillas. They’re acceptable in general, though the al pastor is not cut from a trompo as advertised. It’s a dryish cut with coy flavor.Barbacoa, on the other hand, is a shining filling worthy of ordering by the pound or in a taco employing flour tortillas. One should suffice.The chicken taco is fine with enough salt and not zapped of moisture (I can’t say the same for the chicken flautas). As expected from a Valley-style restaurant, the fajita does not disappoint.

Unfortunately, as is common in the Rio Grande Valley, the tacos aren’t automatically hit with avocado, cilantro and queso fresco.When I asked about the presentation, the owner’s daughter-in-law, who runs the register and the waitress of the small restaurant,said they’re available by request only. The prospect of those little delights and barbacoa in near-translucent, heavenly flour tortilla are reason enough to return to Taqueria Laredo.

This is an update of sorts. The first time I visited Chichen Itza, I found the lowest Greenville taqueria/panaderia to be an awful place serving terrible tacos. That was 2011, and Greenville Avenue was just beginning its slow creep to revitalization. Now the neighborhood is on the upswing: Coffee shops, beer bars, restaurants, a bike shop, heck, even a trendy grocery store and food truck park. It was the latter, the Truck Yard, that drew me one weekday afternoon. Unfortunately, the taco truck I had traveled to see was a no-show. Chichen Itza was the only other taco option nearby. So Chichen Itza, it was.

What I encountered was world’s away from the detritus I stomached during my initial visit. It was decent fare in pliant, un-oily yellow corn tortillas. The chicken milanesa (a breaded and fried chicken cutlet) was even admirable. It held moisture, wasn’t cold—all of the fillings were warm—but it was teetering on the precipice of too salty. If the chicken surprised by not being dry, the beef barbacoa did the same for lacking juice. Meanwhile the lengua was a simple take, shredded and earthy.

It was a pleasant lunch washed down with salty, effervescent Topo Chico, that days latter surprised me even more when a short article published by arts magazine THRWD about punk rock shows at East Dallas taquerias featured Chichen Itza. The piece included a photo of Orgullo Primitivo’s business-in-the-front-party-in-the-back drummer performing in front of the restaurant’s image of the temple in the eponymous Maya city.

While I stand by my initial assessment of Chichen Itza’s tacos, it’s clear that the quality has improved. It should be recongized as such. The Chichen Itza of today is better. And I for one am pleased that I returned.

This is a hole in a wall. Really. Wedged between a laundromat, a hair salon and a convenience store, Taco-Mex is an orange color-framed walk-up taco window. From the menu at the right are available $1.75 vinegar-spiked cactus strips embroiled in scrambled eggs, refried beans speckled with whole pintos and a network of melted cheese, peppy chorizo and egg as well as migas minus the Scoville slap of jalapeños. The $2 barbaoca is a greasy cowhead-lovers dream and would make admirable hangover salve.

The bacon and egg and ham and egg breakfast tacos by comparison are standard fare for the varied clientele of university students, young adults who have pioneered gentrification of surrounding East Austin, locals tapping their feet to the rhythm of the washers and dryers next door, and the fashionable lot who prefer not to shop at in.gredients, the hip grocer across the street. Ratchet up their satisfaction with the creamy salsa verde, a lung-puncher of a condiment.

None of the folks at Taco-Mex are dining at sidewalk tables. Most order their tacos to go. Some are colorful. However, unless you live within a few minutes drive of the joint — any longer and the car ride will ruin the taco — it’s best to relish your purchase in your car or on your car. Trunk tacos can be magical.

A few blocks beyond establishments like Ellerbe Fine Foods, the Usual, Spiral Diner and the Bearded Lady in Fort Worth’s Near Southside neighborhood, is a counter-ordering taqueria. The business, Tina’s Cocina, which opened in September 2013, offers no-nonsense tacos. They won’t knock your socks off but they’ll do you right.

The deshebrada—spelled without the “h” at Tina’s, probably to help non-Spanish speakers with the pronunciation—is brisket stewed in tomatoes and pepper until it shreds delicately. While there isn’t much in the way of heat, the taco is a homey, warm job in sweet yellow corn tortillas. Barbacoa is another pleasing nosh. Whereas most taquerias and Mexican restaurants employ beef cheek for their barbacoa, the kitchen at Tina’s uses ribs cooked covered in yucca.

The chicken, not surprisingly, was the least supportive player during the meal at Tina’s Cocina. Better were the chorizo and vegetable tacos, especially the latter, a fetching array of squash, zucchini, corn and mushroom.

Other tacos on the menu include fish and fajitas (and there’s also a full menu) but best of the bunch was the carnitas. Don’t believe the overhead menu claiming the carnitas is slow roasted, though. When I asked about the pork preparation, I was told it was cooked in the traditional manner, that is to say, pork simmered in its own fat. And it was a treat. Mellow with peeks of sweetness, the carnitas was straightforward, simple, not flashy—much like Tina’s Cocina.

U.S. Highway 281 cuts the country in half, running north-south from the border with Canada and International Peace Garden in Manitoba to the Mexican border in Brownsville, Texas. Along the way, it winds through the Texas Hill Country, bypassing Austin. It’s a peaceful road framed by ranchland, cedar and live oak trees and about every quarter mile or less by deer processing businesses. The highway is also dotted with small towns in which barbecue joints and Mexican and Tex-Mex restaurants abound. El Agave, an adobe-style structure with a festive interior that includes lacquered booth seats bearing tropical and Mexican iconography carved into them and painted with a bright-the-better aesthetic, in Johnson City, Texas, is one of those establishments.

The menu includes Mexican and Tex-Mex standards and 12 tacos, of which I selected three: carnitas, barbacoa and carne guisada with cheese, the latter based on the recommendation of our waitress. 

All were ordered on house-made flour tortillas, pillowy, thick discs in the Central Texas style. They were fantastic.

Not so the carne guisada, a thick slop cinched together by orange, stinky-shoe shredded cheese that I was unable to finish. The barbacoa was a little better, not sopping with grease nor as dry or as thin as twine. But it was El Agave’s carnitas, sweet chunks of alluring pork fried in its own fat, that won the day, rivaling some of the best I’ve had locally and perhaps worth returning for.