No, I did not leave Mexico City without eating tacos al pastor. Yes, I will disappoint you by confessing that my favorite ones in this massive metropolitan area are the best known. (My sister, whose boyfriend exported a trompo to Puerto Rico a few months ago, is feeling shamed as I type this sentence and doesn’t understand why—and won’t until she randomly finds this blog—till then she’ll just blame that strange sensation on being Mexican.)

I think that having an ultra-local al pastor favorite is a requirement for official post-Lebanese-migration citizenship in El D.F. If you can’t name at least one spot in your neighborhood that serves one that a visitor would not find repulsive, then you are like those New York dealers in The Wire, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you get shot just ’cause. This is probably why I rarely visit nowadays. I may have a passport, but I don’t have a land. Somebody get Milan Kundera, quick.

Still, I assure you that El Tizoncito serves the best tacos al pastor in Mexico City. Yes, they seem to waste a lot of money on lousy marketing (as evidenced by the flash animation of their logo through the ages) , but they still cook their meat with charcoal. No, they don’t tally your taco count by the number of paper squares on your plate anymore (they have too much crap on their menu now for that to work), but they still cook their meat with charcoal. Charcoal!

Your propane is weak. Charcoal, motherfucker.