New York City Gets More Bad 'Tex-Mex'

I swore about a year ago never to return to Goat Town. The hype wasn't the issue. Neither were the uncomfortable seats. Somewhere in between the blasé burger and the embarrassment of taking friends to a new place with bad food made it one of those checks you pay and say, "Never again." But the chef changed, and then there was a Grub Street post about their new puffy tacos:

"Chef Julie Farias may have done time at Café Boulud and Le Bernardin, but she hasn't forsaken her Texas roots. To prove it, she's just launched a sensational Mondays-only Tex-Mex menu, a tribute in part to her family's San Antonio meat-market-cum-tortilleria.... 'I'll be here every Monday!' crowed an ecstatic San Antonio expat on a puffy-taco high the other night."

Puffy tacos! In New York Sitt-ee? No way! It's a compulsion in Gotham, this constant hope of finding good Mexican food, one complicated by New York pride and the fact that this great city is constantly denigrated as not having anything worth seeking out. But at this point, after years of seeking it out, and trying to defend the city's scene, it's hard to fight the tide. From a culinary standpoint, finding good Mexican food in this town is the culinary equivalent to going through the seven stages of grief.

Shock and Denial: You're from New York City, or have taken on New Yorker pride. Someone from Texas or California (or worse, both in one conversation) says to you, "There's no good Mexican food in New York City." You don't believe it. You can't believe it. "Yes there is," you say. "There's Tehuitzingo. There's Tortilleria Mexicana Los Hermanos, there's Zaragoza, there's... wait, you're not right! No, it can't be! There has to be good Mexican food in New York. It's the greatest city in the world, right?" Warning, this stage may last a very long time. Although excruciating and almost unbearable, it is important that you experience the pain fully, and not hide it, avoid it, or try to escape from it with tequila, mezcal, or by smoking Mexican oregano.

Pain and Guilt: As the shock wears off, you begin to feel unbelievable pain and jealousy. "New York does not have awesome Mexican food [sniff]. In fact, it's true, the Mexican food here sucks. Where is my good Mexican food? I cannot carry this Taco Bell burden any longer. These white people with beards making bad hipster Mexican food are killing a culinary heritage. I must stop visiting Chipotle."

Anger and Bargaining: Frustration about New York City's bad Mexican food gives way to anger, and you may lash out and lay unwarranted blame for bad tacos on someone else. "Screw those smug San Francisco taco lovers and San Antonio Tex-Mex snobs. There are a lot of Mexicans here. Sure, they all work in the Italian restaurants, but they're here! And they know how to make Mexican food. Don't they? This isn't a city full of Mexi-Can'ts! What does anyone in Lubbock know anyway? Let's toilet paper Rosa Mexicano!"

Depression, Reflection, and Loneliness:Just when your friends think you should get on with a life in New York City without good Mexican food, a long period of sad reflection about the state of tacos will overtake you. This is a normal stage of grief. Do not be "talked out of it" by well-meaning New Yorkers. Encouragement, and the occasional good salsa or midnight taco truck is not helpful during this stage. You will finally realize the magnitude of all the bad margarita mix margaritas, the crispy rice, barbecue beans, refried black beans, and (gasp) flour tortillas. You may isolate yourself, resort to spending time seeking out special ingredients and preparing them for unappreciative Yankee friends who complain, "This plate is too spicy. This plate is too hot." Yeah, that's why it's called picante sauce. You're better off alone.

The Upward Turn: As you start to adjust to life without "real" Tex-Mex or "good" Mexican food, your life becomes a little calmer and more organized. You're less upset about bad salsa. Your physical symptoms lessen. You disregard the buzz around Empellón as the city's best Mexican food and don't even get mad when you overhear conversations raving about La Esquina, or that Rockaway Tacos is back in action. While visiting a random Ohio suburb, you perhaps even decide that ordering fish tacos is not such a good idea, and you even almost don't. Your taco depression begins to lift...

Reconstruction and Working Through: As you become more functional, your mind starts working again, and you will find yourself seeking realistic solutions to problems posed by life without good Mexican food. You will start to work on practical and financial problems, including when and how you can get yourself to various cities in Texas and on the West Coast where they have credible tomatillo sauce. You will alternatively also find yourself a culinary school graduate who you can teach how to make good Tex-Mex and breakfast tacos to your personal specifications, and bring them to you in bed.

Acceptance and Hope: During this, the last of the seven stages in this lackluster Mexican food grief model, you learn to accept and deal with the reality of your situation. Acceptance does not necessarily mean a good burrito in hand. It doesn't mean being able to listen to Match.com date conversations in places like Mexico Lindo where a guy on a date orders enchiladas suizas and asks for them without sour cream. Given the pain and turmoil you have experienced, you can never return to the carefree, untroubled YOU that existed in the place you used to live that had good Mexican food before this tragedy. But you will find a way forward.

And that way will just not be through the "puffy tacos" at Goat Town.

variations on types of puffy tacos. Depending on your favorite puffy taco place, and depending on the city, your puffy tacos may be more or less folded or puffy. (Though San Antonians will likely tell you that Houston puffy tacos are not puffy tacos.)

At Goat Town, forget that you have to pay to get any hot sauce beyond Tabasco. Ignore the enchiladas, which are two-thirds air. The "puffiness" of the puffy tacos at Goat Town means a greasy tortilla with paltry filling. No cheese, shredded lettuce, diced tomato, onions, or sour cream — the puffy taco basics.

At Henry's you might pay for "extras" — Cheddar or Monterrey cost $0.25, guacamole is $0.45, and sour cream goes for a whopping $0.25. But at most places you'd get all the above including guacamole, and unlimited salsa and chips for $16. Depending on the venue, that could include tax and tip.

What was the praise above? "Sensational." What? "I'll be here every Monday." Get a rope. None of those words accurately describe these puffy tacos. And the ecstatic San Antonio expat who crowed this must have grown up in a military family that was in the city for two years about a quarter of a century ago. Whatever high they were on it was most assuredly not caused by puffy tacos.

It's taken a long time for me to say this, New Yorkers, but give up. If this is the best that someone with Texas roots can do, let the bearded hipster faux-Mexicans take over. Apparently, you don't deserve better.

Arthur Bovino is the senior editor for The Daily Meal. Click here to follow Arthur on Twitter.