I disagree with my sisters over many things, but perhaps none more so than the proper way to prepare a taco.
Taco night was an event when I was growing up. Friends and family gathered to partake in the legend known as Grandma Guerra’s tacos. Whenever any of us were at her home in Kansas City, or whenever she visited us farther west, there was always a taco night. Grandma brought the secret ingredient with her when she traveled, and it wasn’t Crisco.
But Crisco seemed to play a part — as sad as that sounds — and this is the source of my debate with my sisters.
Crisco is disgusting. Before we go any further, I want to acknowlege that traditional tacos are not hard-shelled or deep-fried. In the long history of using mashed-up maize to form a vessel to contain meat, there have been many variations. Most of these versions are soft-shelled. Not Grandma’s though; she fried hers in Crisco. And so do my sisters.
I’ve tried to reason with them that Grandma used Crisco for the same reason most people use it today. It’s cheap. When Grandma started frying tacos for her family in the 1940s, there were really only two viable options in Kansas City: lard or Crisco. And thanks to the cost and availability — as well as brilliant marketing — Crisco became the standard American vehicle for deep-fried everything.
Had Grandma known about the chemical gymnastics needed for a soap company to turn oil into a solid, or about the detrimental health risks of transfats, or of cottonseed defoliation, she might have went back to good old animal fat. But then, since the butcher had a higher price, it probably wouldn’t have mattered.
But this is supposed to be a post about how something is done, so let me back up and run you through making tacos at the Guerra home in Alaska.
- Brown some ground beef.
- When it’s almost done, add a bunch of cumin. I don’t measure, I taste.
- Next, throw in salt and pepper, and a swirl of hot sauce.
- Let that simmer till the ground beef is no longer pink. Taste.
- Add some Old Bay if you have it; if not, more salt and pepper and a little more cumin. Taste.
- Add more hot sauce, etc… the point is, it doesn’t matter what protein you use or how you season it. Fish, shrimp, carnitas, chicken, make it how you like it.
- When the meat is cooked, fire up your frying pan. I use a simple stainless steel pan. Now we diverge from family tradition.
Grandma began making her tacos the same way my sister does: Slapping a huge glop of grey goo into a pan. They are convinced this is key. It’s not. In Alaska we use a pat of coconut oil, or a cup of olive oil, or anything that will fry a tortilla. A taco shell will cook the same way in oil, lard, or Crisco. So find the best, healthiest oil out there, get some meat and some super-thin taco shells, and let’s get going.
Now we come to the secret of Grandma Guerra’s tacos: Perez tortillas. My grandfather once explained to me as a child that the super thin Perez taco shell is what made the tacos what they were: melt in your mouth goodness. We don’t get Perez taco shells in Alaska so I use the Guererro brand, but perhaps you have a thinner option where you live.
Steam or microwave a stack of the soft shells to make them malleable. If you don’t, they will crack at the seam when you lay them in the pan.
Heat the oil in the pan on medium-low until it pops when you flick a drop of water into it.
Place a spoonful of meat in a tortilla, fold it, and place it on its side in the pan, careful not to let any of the meat escape. If it does, it will pop and splatter. Pick it out and throw it back in the meat pot for the next taco.
Add as many tacos as will fit in the pan. After a minute or so, flip them over to fry on the other side.
When both sides are crispy, remove them one by one and set them at a 45-degree angle for the grease to drain onto paper towels. Repeat until the meat is exhausted, adding oil as necessary to keep the depth uniform.
The end result is a tray full of small, delicate tacos. They were an all-you-can-eat event when Grandma came. I believe my cousin set the record at 18. Grandma spent hours in the kitchen, visiting, cooking, laughing. Her taco-making days are long over now and she can hardly even stand anymore. But the image of her standing in front of the stove with a vat of Crisco on the left and a tray of tacos on the right is etched into my memory, and probably my sisters’ as well.
We each want to recreate a tradition we love for our own families, but we differ on the details. Grandma used Crisco; she also had a pitcher of homemade salsa and green cans of Kraft Parmesan cheese to accompany them. Believe me, there isn’t anything traditionally Mexican about Kraft Parmesan cheese. Some Mexicans I know will get incensed at the mere notion of any kind of cheese on a taco, but I pile Oaxaca or Colby Jack on mine. In doing so, my sister asserts — just as with my omission of Crisco — “They aren’t Grandma’s tacos.”
My sister is right. They aren’t Grandma’s tacos because she didn’t make them. She will never make another taco again. The legend is gone, only the tradition remains. You can still find Perez taco shells being fried in Crisco and served with Kraft Parmesan cheese in San Diego and Pennsylvania from time to time, and they’re probably fine, but they’ll never be Grandma’s tacos. And I find a small measure of comfort in that, because it was never about Crisco. It was always about her.