Pasadena is a city of industry. Everyone you meet is an operator of something. Growing up in LaPorte, TX, you were expected to work in a plant somewhere. Many of the guys I grew up with ended up with the same job as their dad, and they got a house and kids in the same neighborhood. If you are driving down 225, remarkably, the stale pollution smell hits you at the exact same time as you see the “Pasadena City Limits” sign. If you are driving through Pasadena at night, you will see more police cars than civilian cars, and they will pull you over just for not driving a truck.


GunsadnTacos photos
I don’t have a problem with police, but I do have a problem with Pasadena police. As a teenager, I was pulled over once with three Hispanic friends in the car with me. Why? Because my car was blue. And blue also is a gang color, I guess. We were photographed and added to a “suspected gang member” watchlist, although none of us were breaking any laws at the time. After that, I was pulled over regularly. You know, for being a suspected gang member. That was just the start of my troubles in Pasadena (some of which actually were my direct responsibility), and I pledged never to return.

Ever.

It’s not because there are no tacos there, because, oh, boy, there are plenty. It’s because I hate Pasadena with the fury of a thousand sun gods.

However, due to the astounding number of taco eateries in this area I had to buckle on this commitment and understand that Pasadena could no longer be ignored. I called up my old friend Mando the Pitbull, who lives in the area. We call him that because he injures people.

We cruised down Edgebrook, right off of 45, in Pitbull’s gleaming F150. I hadn’t been on this street in years, and I liked what I saw. Scores of taco trucks extended down both sides of the street. I grinned from ear to ear as Mando adjusted the settings on the Rockford-Fosgate Power T500 amplifier with his cell phone, pushing 2200 watts to each of the three T215D2 Powerstage 2 15-inch subwoofers. A hairline crack in the asphault spidered across the street, as a flight of pigeons went into a collective seizure. You know how armies sometimes play drums as they march into battle? It’s the same concept, I think. Rather than surprise his enemies, Mando prefers to announce his wrath from afar.

I spotted Taqueria Taconmadre on the left. It looks like a small restaurant with three army-green school bus-sized taco trucks in the parking lot, two of which were closed. Neon signs advertised some of their non-typical cuisine, such as enchiladas poblanas and elotes. I couldn’t really figure out the restaurant -- the door was unlocked, but it just went into a small room with another door. Whatever.

I ordered at the truck: one suadero, one al pastor (they call it “trompo”), one fajita and one barbacoa. I opened up my foil, and they looked and smelled great. I frowned at the odd pre-packaged, seemingly factory-sealed salsa pouch. After dousing with lime and a touch of salt, I applied the brownish-red salsa and chowed down. The salsa had a bold, surprising and complex taste that I was instantly enamored with. I put it on everything. The al pastor stood out with a very unique, rich and delicious taste. On a street where taco trucks reign, Taconmadre makes its mark with unique seasonings and some of my favorite red salsa around. It’s also open 24/7. As we enjoyed our tacos, a police cruiser pulled a Taurus over in the parking lot, brought the guy to the back of the vehicle and started patting him down. Probably one of those non-truck driving gang member types.
"Pitbull" Armando is smiling. Mando never smiles.