If you’re an American citizen in Mexico and somebody stabs you and takes your passport… cheer up, chirpy! You have an excuse to visit the Embassy, which is conveniently located just a couple of blocks away from El Caminero (opposite the corner of Rio Lerma and Rio Poo—don’t let this be an omen).

Hopefully the stab wound won’t be fatal. You don’t want to miss this.

Also, if you’re bleeding heavily don’t get confused and end up in the location near the Revolution square. Yes, it’s run by the same company, and it almost has the same menu as the one near the Embassy (though slightly bigger, and therefore less focused, since it’s the larger restaurant), but their grills are seasoned very differently. (Also, the portions are inexplicably smaller, though the prices are the same.)

I know this grill seasoning stuff can be as believable as homeopathy, so just in case you have epistemic concerns there’s another explanation: The guys behind the grill, the man behind the register, the dude who brings your drinks… almost every single one of them has been working there since I can remember. (Even the welcome mat.) And I’ve been going there for… fuck, I am old.

Whatever you order, please get the consommé while you’re waiting. If you gave up on garbanzos after you discovered that hummus tastes better with butterbeans, it will make you believe again. I know it’s not a real consommé, in the French sense, since it’s not clear, but the fact that you care makes you a pedant. You’ll probably laugh at the coffee mug in which it’s served (I don’t think this is for iconoclastic reasons—they probably didn’t think they’d be making soup and so they didn’t buy bowls when they got started), too.

And don’t forget the cebollitas. They’re very, very fine onions. Again, it’s the grill. Trust me.

The tacos only come in large orders, so please arrive hungry. The smallest order is alleged to have three tacos, but you’ll probably count between 5 and 6 based on the number of tortillas you get and the amount of meat (no scientific instruments are used to dispense it). I usually go for the 9er Super Especial de Bistek, which is topped with a generous amount of cheese, onions, and bacon, and sandwiched between two piles of 3 million tortillas.

The bottom tortillas are completely worthless for actually making a taco. (Don’t try. I’ve seen grown Mexican men snap and confess deeply disturbing things when they fail, for example that they routinely overpay on police bribes because they just don’t like to haggle.) By the time you can see them they’ll be soaked in grease and meat juice, and torn to shreds. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re not edible; they’re just a special accidental side dish that should never go to waste. I don’t have a name for it yet, probably for the same reason that the Old Testament tells you not to call The Baby Jesus’ father by his proper name.

Also, their red Salsa is the best damn thing ever created since someone decided that pain is a condiment. I’m slobbering as I type this. It’s gringo-safe, too, so don’t be shy.