"No pets, shirt shoes required," is my favorite sign inside Taco King on Park Lane. I'm pretty excited to go back without my cat and also without a shirt or shoes and order me up some tacos.
Inside, it's pretty sparse. One ceiling-mounted TV broadcasting the requisite telenovela with requisite subtitles—in Spanish, because duh, you probably can't hear it with all the tortillas being slapped around in here—and one beverage fridge filled with a variety of tasty-looking sodas (including Squirt). The awkward part was that Mexican Coke was there—and I don't think anyone told Regular Coke.
Regular Coke: You think you're better than me, but you're not better than me. This can of corn syrup could whoop your glass-bottle ass any day. You want a piece of this? Huh?!
Mexican Coke: (busts out a switchblade...)
Regular Coke: FUCK, dude!
Mexican Coke: (...and then shaves his face with it like, "Ha ha, pussy. You thought I was going to knife you, and it turns out I'm just practicing proper hygiene.")
Regular Coke: Damn you and your sugar-cane ass. (gets all huffy)
It also has one menu that's perfect for you cheap-ass hos. Tacos cost a buck a piece. And they have, like, 10 different kinds, so for 10 bucks you can try out the whole taco menu. Sure, they've got other stuff—but this is the Taco King. Maybe after you've been here a few times it's acceptable for you to try out the menudo plate just because I want someone to find out whether that's a plate of innocent boy band or a plate of tripe with rice and beans (I can't imagine which would be worse). This time, I ordered tacos carnitas, barbacoa and pastor. The white corn tortillas were filled to the brim with my meats and came with sides of cilantro, raw and sautéed onions, lime wedges and jalapeños. My favorite of the three was the barbacoa: nice spice to it, really juicy, and it paired best with their salsas (the red one will eat your soul and beat up your children. It's the Gary Oldman freaky-deaky vampire of salsas. It does not, how you say, fuck around).