FINALLY got started on Spring in Hieron this weekend (AKA, listened to the recap ep and half of the first ep) and

ONE. the Seasons of Hieron recaps are genuinely very helpful even when you have listened to the seasons they’re recapping because they will confirm things that flew RIGHT over your head when listening! (realized that those rapiers in Samol’s house belonged to the Hitchcocks! did NOT realize that the Hitchcocks helped build the Buoy!)

TWO. TIME SKIP TIME SKIP TIME SKIP TIME —

THREE. SO not the most important thing in that initial conversation between Fero and Samol but. it IS very important (and hilarious) to me that Samot was the god who invented palm trees and coconuts.

Discovering Alambres in Milwaukee

Shepherd Express

Beef or pork? Tripa? What about lengua? I can’t live without at least trying every chorizo presented to me. And with any decent Mexican restaurant even pollo should be on the table for discussion—hinting at the biggest problem within the greatest, highest-varietal world cuisine: What do you order when you want everything?

Anyone with the maybe embarrassing experience of eating out with me at a proper Mexican spot has probably witnessed, with some gastrointestinal wonder, or maybe a guffaw, a personal solution to the conundrum. It is what I’ve long deemed the “entree-plus” method. What you do is order, say, a torta dinner, but then, politely holding your finger up to indicate to the waitress you are not yet done with your wish list, also ask for a couple of tacos. For the side. Maybe get the shrimp diablo, and team it with a simple desebrada number. Try the bistec ranchero, but with a sidecar of cecina. Possibilities become endless, but within, the basic premise is simple: to run the meat gamut, as much as possible, exponentially increase your lipid-and-sauce variations, skip the fear of missing out, make lunch a cultural deep dive, in the process achieving your Epicurean best self, spinning life into a fete of curiosity, not restraint, and turning the table into one of those fashionably messy, rustic Bon Appetit cover photo shoots.        

But what if the answer to the ubiquitous meat question, with all the options, all the exotic-sounding proteins, is, more simply—in that annoying social media vernacular vain—“Yes, please!”  

Enter the Mexico City specialty known as the Alambre. Spanish for “wire,” the word is indeed rooted in a meat combo cooked on a skewer. But it is a shish kabob in spirit only. In the real world it exists as a single plate amalgamation, a meat party, that is actually more like a sizzling late-night drunk skillet of all the most satisfying things found in the furthest crevices of the fridge. Among the multitude varietals, the basic offering mixes steak, chopped bacon, bell peppers, onions, melty cheese. Chorizo is a common contributor as well. Ham can sometimes be considered a healthy alternative—which tells you much about the nature of the dish. Avocado is also a usual suspect. But remember, as it tells itself every morning when looking in the mirror, that is good fat. A blank slate for Fieri-level exploration when sided by tortillas and some salsa, the alambre is a vessel of a DIY taco tour through a good Mexican grocery store.  

My introduction came on 25th and Greenfield Avenue, where the sadly-shuttered El Canaveral once specialized in the plate. It is a meal that still exists like something out of Proust, the memory triggering hunger daydreams of winter nights spent hunkered over a posse of a meat pile, a craggy, cheesy sponge for their quintet of creamy salsas, each building on the last in hue, heat, and intensity. What was truly unique, in those Canaveral salad days, was I only felt the need to order one thing. One word, even, levied to the waitress, enough to hold all the Mexican meal promise one might reasonably ask for. I often bemoan the loss, wistfully ponder the empty husk of the handsome and cozy corner barroom, consider the death of all that smoking meat waft potential. But in loving pursuit of those bite memories, I set out to chronicle what remains, to capture at least a loose roadmap of Milwaukee’s best single-steaming-plate Mexican marriage of foodstuffs.    

4. Kompali Taqueria

Maybe the most telling thing about restaurateurs Karlos Soriano and Paco Villar is how little, through maybe two dozen meals, I’ve ever found wrong with either of their two spots. First, they put too much pineapple on the pastor offering at Kompali, the new taco joint. Second, as a waitress once chastised me for a request, scolding, “I only have two hands!” it seems they can’t find great help at C-Viche. That is it. Everything else—from the aji verde sauce to the pork beans to the esquite to the pisco sours to the succulent beef hearts fit for even those squeamish about, “wait, this is heart?”—feels somehow  in turns regional and personal, and like it’s been consummated with a sense of thoroughness and chile peppered-love. C-Viche is really just a couple of brunch misfires short of upholding my contention that it is maybe the most interesting, if not flat out best, restaurant in Milwaukee.

Which is to say their second, stripped down, taco and tequila-focused Brady Street replacement of Cemapazuchi is certain to deliver on the basics. And it does: from the distinctly salty, cumin-tinged, creamy tomato salsa that comes with the chips, to the smoky chipotle mayo-textured blend that comes with the tacos, it is a happy ideal of Mexican cooking that Cempazuchi only really seemed to be that one time on TV. They also personify an ideal starter alambre for the uninitiated—in prefab taco form. Diced carne asada tumbles uniformly with tender chopped ham and slightly crunchy bacon bits, everything topped with onion and bell pepper before being swathed in smooth goo queso and swaddled neatly inside a homemade tortilla. While the rest of the list here strive for something between gut burstage and a drunken munchie sate, this is a happy, reasonable start not only to an alambre tour, but to a night out. With little threat of overwhelming, without grease-bombing, with nary a worry as to not having room for more drinks, dessert. In fact maybe that’s a third complaint. Or it would be if I wasn’t so happy filling up with their housemade chorizo, the aforementioned pastor, etc.  

3. Al Pastor

Despite the nachos and burritos and ‘Stallis zip code, the menu at Al Pastor does specifically promise “Mexico City style cuisine,” and alongside the eponymous pork stuff of taco dreams and the likes of bistec en chile de arbol, the alambre is presented, simply, honestly, as a “delicious combination.”     

Thin folds of tender skirt steak, with prominent sear marks, generous seasoning and decent snap, dominant the taste swirl of the mashup plate. These are buoyed by bits of salty ham—some grilltop-blackened, some fleshy; tiny granules of charred chorizo, lending a greasy beating heart to the whole; semi-charred wedges of red and green bell peppers; and bright Oaxacan cheese, half-melted throughout, gooping and draping everything like a tangled favorite blanket. Hunks of pineapple occasionally turn up too, contrasting the saltiness, lending some sweet bright sunshine, even to a barren block of Burnham in February.

It’s a richly savory meat sludge, all aspects breaking up under fork pressure, colliding, tussling, coming together in earthy, brackish bites, steaming and begging to be patted atop lightly griddled, sturdy flour tortillas. Ratchet everything up with a surprisingly zinging fresh jalapeno salsa, or a fiery vinegar-laced, arbol-based red. It’s emblematic of when food writers, like sportwriters, feel the need for that old adage of the package being greater than the sum of the parts. How else to describe the Giannis, Middleton, Bledsoe ball movement to open-three mindflow? The roll, the collective rhythm, the push and pull, the unexpectedness, the jazz, that extra-sensory unity. Like the Bucks, the alambre might be the one seed of Mexican cuisine. A “delicious combination” indeed.   

2. La Flamita

It’s like a scene out of a movie: the know-everything writer, pushing big nerd glasses back up on the bridge of his cook-bookish nose, trying out a bit of show-off Spanish, placing a knowing order, within which to don worldliness, after which to scribe a wise pen-sermon full of clever phrases and expensive-sounding words, is stopped in his cocky tracks with a simple question— “What meat?” Yes, apparently you can improvise, personalize your alambre here at this white truck parked on 20th and National. And while such off-balance thinking has led to many problematic orders through the years, it’s clear this is a dish that could only be messed up by a vegetarian. This is the thought the man in the order window must have, half-heartedly agreeing, nodding, patiently waiting, as I audibly recite every possible roster variation that comes to mind, eventually arriving on an All-Star team of asada, pastor, and chorizo.   

This is a to-go order of homogenized harmony, everything neatly, uniformly diced, melded, a goopy white cheese center holding the whole family together with the droopy, loving arms of a domineering grandmother. Nothing gets too far away, each bite seemingly packed with equal part onion and bell pepper hunks, velvety melty queso, and, in my iteration, craggly cow and greasy pork two different ways. Ignore the rote verde salsa in lieu of a truly mean-spirited, arbol-centered sauce. It lends a bit of heated vitality, vigor throughout all that togetherness. This eye-opening feel is furthered by full exploration of the bag. That tin-foiled brick down there isn’t more tortillas. It is a steaming baked potato. Soft, starchy, you can neatly crumble it atop the meat mix, or maybe refry a bit for next-morning eggs. Either way, it’s happily sponge-like, more salsa-soaking than french fries, and turns out to be an ingenious little carb-y loaf addition to the big styrofoam protein package. It’s also another surprising glimpse of the peripatetic nature of taco trucking—the road is a mighty teacher.

1. La Guelaguetza

The most delightfully-named taqueria in the city—the truck on 15th and Burnham takes its handle from an annual indigenous cultural festival in Oaxaca—has a handy translation placard for available meats: “lengua” is “tongue,” “cabeza” is “head,” “Alambres” is… “Alambres.”  Meaning, seemingly, that there is no translation. As in, if you don’t speak the language, you won’t get it. It reminds me of a time a well-meaning prankster member of my Mexican in-law tribe tried to let me in on the ultimate Spanish cuss, the one to use if anybody is really giving you a hard time. When I asked my wife to explain what it meant, I didn’t think the translation sounded so offensive. Until, later, at one of those extended relative gatherings, when, backed into a corner, being mocked for my broken espanol, fumbling for a face-saving zinger, I let the unmentionable phrase slip in front of an abuela, a tia, and a gaggle of cousins. All eyes on me, mouths aghast in collective terror and befuddlement, with crickets suddenly echoing around the awkward silence, it was like Lenny Bruce joking about Adolf Hitler. I haven’t been invited to a family funeral since.

What can’t be lost or misconstrued in translation is taste. So if you stumble through the three-syllables, you will be rewarded with an alambre of crispy asada, tender pastor from a bulbous stationary vertical spit of seasoned pork, and bacon wedges in varying levels of doneness. The multitude meat stuffs exist in loose, pepper-inflected affiliation, messily inconsistent chops leave incongruous bites—some onion-y, some gooey, all meaty and salty and dense. Such variety is the spice of life, as they say. Which is not true. Salsa is the spice of life. And the rojo here is blood red and angrily smoky, thick enough to hold its own on the mass, spicy but short of overpowering, so that the massive container of chopped, pickled habanero and onion sitting on the counter should still be utilized. Though, in the spirit of those male enhancement drug disclaimers, maybe consult with a doctor if there is any history of heart problems. A crumbly baked papa also sits atop the two-meal mash. And by now, it feels like, why not? It’s a spongy starch addition that is better to soak it up—the debris, the salty carnage, all the messy drip of life itself. Piquant, earthy, foreign, comforting, a concentrated slop of intricacy and nuance, the whole thing is really a beautiful sense bastardization, an amalgamation that only leaves trace amounts of grease guilt.     

Sometimes saying things you don’t understand really pays off.