tomato-tinted rice; pinto beans simmered until they barely hold their
shape; an even layer of marinated pork, re-crisped on the griddle to make
its surfaces brown and toasty; a wide swath of salsa.
The burrito owes
its superiority to scale. Not only is it compact enough to hold in one fist, there are no dead spots, no rice clogs or sour cream sinkholes. There is just enough rice, and it is seasoned
just potently enough, to compensate for the beans' flavor-sucking
tendencies. Every bite sparkles with some new
crunch ― cilantro-bright onion here, lime-marinated tomato there. I'd been fearing that the future of the species would be dominated by the kind of taquerias that trumpeted their whole-wheat tortillas and (underseasoned) grass-fed beef. It is reassuring that some burritos have evolved just as far as they need to, and no further.
Taqueria San Francisco: 2794 24th St. (at York), 641-1770.