LA MEXICANA
28TH OF MARCH 26
It shouldn’t come as any surprise that I’m not Felons’ biggest fan, if one at all. I was most definitely not cheering on the sidelines when so many valued locations fell victim to their monopolised takeover. Chat Thai, the only takeaway option that seemed to cause no arguments when dining with the family at my Nan’s. El Camino, diss it all you want but those sugary mountainous drinks got me DRUNK and had me on a bus home with McDonalds on route by 9pm. Happy endings for me and my mum. And once we aged out of those weathered sombrero hats and free chips with mysterious salsas, the Bavarian became the classier spot to drink the same tacky margaritas before a night out, another fallen soldier.
BUT, I can give credit where it's due and there is no memory from my hazy post-covid-fresh-18 youth where the entire wharf was taken over by a Michelin recommended taqueria jetted here straight from Mexico City.
Some of the crew from El Vilsito left their auto-repair shop location in CDMX for two magical weekends here, where they took full reign over Manly Wharf and all of its surrounds. Colourful flags promoting the ‘La Mexicana’ festival were swinging in the wind while real life corns on their cobs lined the bustling pathways. Mariachi bands performed for candle-lit tables on the jetty during the evenings and every few metres you could find a tent churning out warm elotes, al pastor tacos sliced fresh off the trompo or tajin drenched fruits.
I managed to get myself down there on the final Saturday night of their stint. Rookie error on my behalf. Shoulders grazed against mine constantly as we shoved our way through crowds. A lengthy line snaked around the corn stall and I listened with envy to the slurps of the soupy esquites I was not going to wait for. Live music was escaping from the jam-packed jetty but second-hand claustrophobia prevented me from even attempting to enter. So we found the next best thing, the newly refurbished and very formal events space resembling a carpeted school cafeteria during multicultural week, blasting Bad Bunny over the speakers. Plastic tablecloths stamped with bright flowers were splayed over each table, dressed simply with a tin of wooden cutlery and a handful of hungry diners.
Their small menu offered a selection of taco options but after intense research that involved watching a 28 minute episode of Netflix’s Taco Chronicles dedicated to the al pastor and featuring El Vilsito themselves, no decisions needed to be made. In the episode, the people of Mexico described the al pastor like the “smog in Mexico City because it’s apart of everyday life”. In the same breath they described El Vilsito as “the kind of place an ‘in the know’ friend would take you to”. All I could do now was prepare my ravenous tongue to be graced by some of the best.
The food came out in record time for a Felons visit but not before a dire pit-stop at the bar to get ahold of a strawberry margarita in a mini Patron bottle. Other than the novelty that came from sipping a bright red liquid out of that tiny little thing, this purchase only hurt my financial confidence. The flavour profile included a trigger to my gag-reflex from the raging tequila and then hints of a red cordial mixture not yet watered down.
Back at the table the tacos awaited, meat and toppings galore. The al pastors’ were loaded up with a generous heaping of glistening orange pork. A subtle earthiness to their bite was remnant of the hours spent spinning on its vertical skewer against the breath of the fire. The caramelised sweetness from the pineapple acted as a welcome shield against the smokiness of the dish and the harshness of the onion united with everything else for a symphony of flavour. Spicy fumes wafted up from the salsa roja I had poured over my tacos, penetrating the nostrils with all bark and no bite as there didn’t seem to be too much heat behind it.
I had also snuck in an order of their steak tacos because who could possibly resist. A hefty portion of flank pieces dripping with a flavourful grease sat atop a tortilla, the oils spilling down fingers and wrists and into the depths of cardigan sleeves. I wanted the whole ordeal of chewing that tender meat down to its last, flavourful dregs to go on forever. On top of that mound, a green salsa lay stealthily waiting, its sneaky heat masked by it’s non-threatening light green colour causing a nice surprise with every bite.
With plates licked clean and mini margaritas disassembled so not even the drips tucked in crevices would be wasted, we set off. The tacos were delicious. One could argue a slight dryness from the meat and tortillas if one were to weigh up the buzz and anticipation that’s come with this special visit. But to play devils advocate, the volume in which they would of been churning out taco after taco leaves a smidgen of room for error in my eyes and it was still an honour to have El Vilsito’s very own taco grease running down my hands. So rest in peace to the 10c chicken wings sold on a Monday arvo at El Camino and rest in peace to the incredible Saké interiors that I only ever saw once thanks to my fear of seafood. But it’s safe to say I have been converted. Long live Felons and here’s to many more total wharf takeovers!