Brick building that's falling apart count: 1
Hours I smelled like Mexican food after I left Herrera's: 4
Herrera's has fuckin' good tortillas. And before you tell me that resorting to vulgarities is childish and lame, I say screw you, you're wrong. (And, because I pre-empted your judgery with an awesome dis', I win. So, suck it.) These tortillas weren't just regular good. They were fuckin' good. There's a difference. I should really be explaining this with visual aids, but it really boils down to this: Regular good is you getting to second base with a girl. Fuckin' good is you getting to second base with a girl who's not your cousin or your mom. Woot! But seriously, these tortillas were so second-base-with-not-your-mom good.
And the salsa will light your mouth on fire. It's hotter than Estelle Geddy (Clearly, I'm not talking about Golden Girls Estelle Geddy, I'm talking about Stop! Or My Mom'll Shoot Estelle Geddy). So, if you're that guy who thinks mild Pace Picante is super hard-core, or you're that chick who's all, "Is this going to be spicy? I don't like spicy foods," don't even walk through Herrera's puerta.
I asked for the $5.95 No. 8 special with an iced tea. (But you should order the 13A. I really wanted it based on the fact that it was the special with the coolest name—which is how I always pick specials—but before I could order it, my growling stomach punched me in the liver and told me I was not to pass up The Ocho.) My plate showed up about three seconds later, and I was happy to see that Herrera's does not, how you say, "fuck around." The plate was so full of sauce that the only way I knew that there were two cheese enchiladas hiding under all that queso and meat sauce was that I remembered the menu description. The tamale was great too, and I loved the fact that they didn't waste my stomach's time with rice or beans. Left to right, this plate was enchilada, enchilada, tamale. It was beautiful. Don't get me wrong—I like me some rice and beans. I just like cheesy, meaty tubes way better.
