Linni Eats L.A.: El Huarache Azteca #1

This world has myriad lessons to offer me. I’ve picked up quite a few gems of knowledge in school, in topics ranging from the mass media’s meddling in politics to oppressive post-colonial relationships. Outside of the Oxy bubble, however, I recently had a profoundly eye-opening experience just a half-mile east on York Blvd.

It is here, beyond Marty’s and The York, buried deep in a Spanish-speaking territory with a tendency to intimidate that you’ll find El Huarache Azteca #1. From the street, it looks just like any other Mexican hole-in-the-wall. They’re all over L.A., boasting carne asada tacos, burritos and whatever other doughy concoctions can be dreamed up to hold meat. They all look the same—dirty, nondescript and not worth the time or effort. Why take a chance on a seemingly broke-down storefront whose signs you can’t read and who barely has the wherewithal to name their restaurant? I’ll just stick to Leo’s for my taco fix, thank you.


At least this used to be my outlook, before I took said chance on huaraches. The word means sandal in Spanish, and I had to know what they were serving that not only warrants that name, but deserves to be the shop’s namesake. As it turns out, a huarache isn’t far from a sope—the thick, fried masa dough is shaped into an oval vaguely reminiscent of an Old Navy flip-flop and topped with the meat of your choosing, sprinkled with cotija cheese and cilantro and drizzled with milky crema. But here’s the kicker [pun intended]—the “shoe” is filled with a thin layer of refried beans. I made the mistake of gobbling this up too fast the first time, but that’s another lesson learned—take it slow. You have to appreciate the simple greatness of this dish, let it consume you, become one with the huarache.


El Huarache Azteca #1 holds a special place in my heart, not simply because it freed me from the false stereotype of dingy Mexican joints. I will always remember this place as the first time I tried lengua and huitlacoche as taco fillings—tongue and corn fungus, respectively. This restaurant offers you just about anything you want in any form you want it, from brain on a quesadilla to tripe in a burrito; you can even get their famed barbacoa on Saturdays and Sundays piled onto a sope or torta. The tongue was pink and softer than any meat I’ve ever tasted, while the huitlacoche had an almost bitter taste like the juice in a jar of kalamata olives.


The best part about taking risks here is that you won’t break the bank if you realize you don’t like to eat stomach lining after already paying for it. Three tacos and a pop cost $2.99, as does the huarachito (smaller huarache) served with rice, beans and a drink. In addition to the usual sodas and Jarritos, they have five large containers lining their countertop, filled with agues frescas made daily in a variety of flavors. Horchata will always be my favorite, but the pina is great for those who like something sweet and fruity, and the tamarindo offers a less-sugary, brown-hued substitute for you Coke-lovers out there. They’re so fresh, I didn’t even mind squeezing the chunks of pineapple through my straw.

The daily specials are also not to be missed—from the spicy albondigas on Mondays to Wednesdays’ mole verde and caldo de pollo, the soup-slingers and masa masters behind the counter here sure know what they’re doing.

So don’t be fooled by the plastic silverware and Styrofoam plates. Don’t let Highland Park’s dingy dollar stores and nameless storefronts keep you away from a culinary experience that blows corporate “clean” Mexican places out of the water. I’ve learned my lesson, and it’s time you learned yours—if a Mexican place doesn’t seem dirty and seedy, it probably isn’t good.

El Huarache Azteca #1
5225 York Blvd.