El Estascion used to be a Taco Bell or some kind of “Mexican” take out. It’s still got the counter, the sturdy booths, the arched brickwork. But there’s nothing faux Mexican about it anymore.
When you walk in, either the father or one of the two sons greets you with a smile showing sparkling white teeth — one of the sons waxes his mustache into perfect curls on each end, one of them is so tall you can’t quite believe it when he stands up. The women who staff the kitchen have thin arched eyebrows, maybe painted on, and their black hair is pulled tightly back.
Everyone is speaking Spanish — the pair of guys in the window booth — one in a big black cowboy hat — the couple with the stocky boy, the three macho guys with tattoos sitting at the center table, the kitchen staff. Standing in the middle of the room is a guitar player. He’s neatly dressed in a vest and white shirt, he’s wearing a clean straw hat, and he plays Mexican songs on his guitar. He plays a song, singing, picking his guitar strings, not too loud. There’s no applause. He talks with the macho guys for five minutes or so, they flip through a laminated spiral bound binder, maybe it’s a songlist? They chat, the musician, the guys, and then he plays another song. The guys are drinking big tomato colored drinks with salt on the rim and a big slice of lime on the edge of the glass.
My friend has a burrito — carnitas, grilled meat — and I have the rajas — roasted chilis, onions, tomatoes, topped with grated cheese. There’s an orange heap of rice and a slop of refried beans on the plate, everything is absolutely delicious. We drink Coca Cola from heavy glass bottles labeled in Spanish, I pour mine into a Styrofoam cup filled with ice. My tortillas are thick and irregular — I hold each one in the palm of my hand, fill them with rajas, roll them up, and eat them. Another family comes in, two women, sisters, maybe, and a large man hefting a baby in a carrier. The women are dressed to kill in high heels and sharp makeup and big sparkly earrings.
The waitress smiles as she takes our plates. I’ve been here a few times before, I don’t know if she recognizes me as the gringa with a thing for Mexican food. They always speak Spanish to me when I walk in, switching to English only if I can’t make the effort to use my rusty Espanol. If I do, the men at the counter wait, they assist, they do not switch to English just to make it easier for me.
I love this place because they serve Mexican food like I remember from California, not the washed out facsimile I’ve learned to settle for here in the Pacific Northwest. I love that they have a sign that tells you which tamales are available that day, I love that I can not get my head around the menu and am forced to order whatever my eye sticks to when I’m there so it’s something different almost every time. That’s how I ended up with the rajas.
At the next table, the macho guys chat and laugh with the guitar player. He sings a song, it has a distinctive Mexican sound. When he’s finished, again, there is no applause, just questions from the macho guys, more chatter, another song. I have no idea what they’re talking about. My ears are full of Spanish, the rajas sit warm in my belly. my Mexican Coca Cola melts the ice in my cup. The guy with the black cowboy hat gets up and leaves, his buddy follows, a fourth guy joins the middle table. From up high on the south wall, the Virgin of Guadalupe watches over all of us, the waitress, the musician, the machos, the women in their makeup, the padron with his flawless smile. Suddenly, the small room fills with an overwhelming smoky smell of chilis roasting and a few minutes later, there’s another song.
Taqueria La Estacion is at 14820 Ambaum in Burien, south of Seattle. Go hungry, go often.
Hey neighbor, this summer my quest is to sample all the taco trucks in the White Center area, though I also plan to move on the actual restaurants soon. We go to Guymas about once a week and need to branch out. In terms of taco trucks, so far I prefer El Rey Del Taco on Sylvan Way by Home Depot.