Newly minted Michelin-starred chef Arturo Rivera Martínez stood over an insanely hot grill at the first Mexican taco stand ever to get a coveted Michelin star from the French dining guide, and did exactly the same thing he’s been doing for 20 years: searing meat.
Although Michelin representatives came by Wednesday to present him with one of the company’s heavy, full-sleeved, pristine white chef’s jackets, he didn’t put it on: In this tiny, 10-foot by 10-foot business, the heat makes the meat. And the heat is intense.
At Mexico City’s Tacos El Califa de León, in the scruffy-bohemian San Rafael neighborhood, there are only four things on the menu, all tacos, and all of which came from some area around a cow’s rib, loin or fore shank.
“The secret is the simplicity of our taco. It has only a tortilla, red or green sauce, and that’s it. That, and the quality of the meat,” said Rivera Martínez. He’s also probably the only Michelin-starred chef who, when asked what beverage should accompany his food, answers “I like a Coke.”
It’s actually more complicated than that. El Califa de León is the only taco stand among the 16 Mexican restaurants given one star, as well as two eateries that got two stars. Almost all the rest are pretty posh eateries.
In fact, other than perhaps one street food stand in Bangkok, El Califa de León is probably the smallest restaurant ever to get a Michelin star: Half of the 100 square-foot space is taken up by a solid steel plate grill that’s hotter than the dip.
The other half is packed with standing customers clutching plastic plates and ladling salsa, and the assistant who rolls out the rounds of tortilla dough constantly.
In a way, El Califa de León is a tribute to resistance to change. It got there by doing exactly the same four things it has been doing since 1968.
Thousands of time a day, Rivera Martínez grabs a fresh, thinly sliced fillet of beef from a stack and slaps it on the super-hot steel grill; it sizzles violently.
He tosses a pinch of salt over it, squeezes half a lime on top, and grabs a soft round of freshly rolled tortilla dough onto the solid metal slab to puff up.
After less than a minute — he won’t say exactly how long because “that’s a secret” — he flips the beef over with a spatula, flips the tortilla, and very quickly scoops the cooked, fresh tortilla onto a plastic plate, places the beef on top and calls out the customer’s name who ordered it.
Any sauces — fiery red or equally atomic green — are added by the customer. There is no place to sit and at some times of day, no place to stand because the sidewalk in front of the business was taken over by street vendors hawking socks and batteries and cell phone accessories years ago.
Not that you would really want to eat inside the tiny taco restaurant. The heat on a spring day is overwhelming.
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