Primosa Taqueria - Mckinney TX

Primosa Taqueria: a restaurant review. 

If it weren't for the faded, rusty sign out front, you may miss this little hole in the wall. I happen to live within walking distance so tonight, I decided to give the place a go. It advertises traditional Mexican food with a specialty in ricos tripas. 

The restaurant also houses a small convenience store which adds to the quaint, homey feel. The waitress/attendant looked shocked to see me. I told her I spoke Spanish and she smiled and waved me to a seat. (A sign letting me know whether to seat myself or wait to be seated would have been nice.) 

The menu is two pages. Tortas, enchiladas, and platillos. I ordered a chicken Vasques. It came with beans and rice. 

Maria brought me my chips and homemade salsa first. Any Mexican restaurant worth anything will have a homemade salsa. I prefer the chunky variety over the soupy mix more reminiscent of a Bloody Mary than food. The heat should play gently on the sides of the tongue and prep your tastebuds for the more alkaline foods to come. The chips are as equally important. Traditionally made from corn, these little guys should be crunchy, nearly bite size, and balance the thin line between corn and salt. Salsa should never carry the salt flavor. 

These chips were apparently made from the skins of jalapeños. The first bite lit my mouth on fire. Sides, top, back, front...they all sprang to life in the sudden onslaught of heat. I quickly followed that chip with another dipped in salsa, hoping the cilantro would quell the blaze. Big mistake. I'm pretty sure this salsa was forged in the fires of Mt Doom and carried the curse of Sauron with it. Maria waved and asked how I liked her salsa. I nodded and was going to ask where she got her plutonium but the heat had fused my larynx shut momentarily. Plus, I never smim a meal before main course. You never know what a smimmed chef will do to your food. Points off for her asking anyway. 

I took a sip of water. At least I think it was water. It was like liquified ghost peppers. I opened my mouth and let the water pour back into the glass. I took a few more chips in hand and pointed to a sign on the wall, "what is that?" I asked in Spanish. When she turned away, I dropped the chips on the floor under the table. This little game continued until Maria refilled my chip basket and brought me more napkins to mop my forehead with. I wiped my sweaty eyes with my hands and realized that was a mistake. Now I'd have to eat the rest of my meal with one eye swelled shut and oozing. 

Thankfully the meal came out. I needed some pintos and tortillas to calm the searing pain on my tongue. 

Refried beans can be a true work of art or a strong reminder of the craft paste you used in elementary school. The beans have very little flavor on their own and that's why the best beans use copious amounts of lard and onions. They should be fluid but not runny. The accompanying rice should be fluffy with little to no stickiness. Butter and a touch of paprika or cumin is all you need for this side dish. The rice is mainly a filler. An unnecessary starch. I've never had Chicken Vasques so I can't tell you how it should traditionally taste but the accompanying mole sauce should carry a subtle heat and lots of smoky undertones. 

"I made these special today" Maria told me pointing at the beans. "I hope you like." 

"I hope I don't die" was all I thought. 

The beans tasted like crushed brimstone boiled in Beelzebub's piss. Or at least, that's what they felt like. I began to chew faster, my one good eye squinting with pain. I think it burned a hole in my cheek and fell out of my mouth because I don't remember swallowing but a streak of beans and possibly a chunk of my tongue smeared the front of my shirt. 

Maria kept asking if I was ok. I think I called her grandmother a nasty name because she backed away in shock. It's hard to recall details when your ears are ringing and it hurts to breathe. 

I'm pretty sure the rice was seasoned with the soul of a communist dictator and upon swallowing that mouth full I finally screamed out in pain. "Santa Maria! I'm burning!" I dropped my fork and it hit my uneaten chicken Vasques  the mole sauce spattered up and hit my good eye.  I could have sworn Satan spat in my eye. In fact, I was so convinced he did that this is precisely what I screamed as I threw my table back and ran around the eating area clawing at my inflamed pupils. In the haze, I saw Maria cross herself and I heard a child start to cry in the corner. 

A patron yelled something but the only thing I heard over the intense ringing in my ears was "gringo" and "leche." Maria quickly filled a glass with milk and put it on the counter. I drank it greedily and for the first time in what seemed like eternity, the flame subsided from nuclear to volcanic. I tried to thank her but my tongue had stopped working a while back. I think it was flopping back and forth outside my mouth by now. I didn't care because I could no longer feel it. 

I left Primosa Taqueria with a mixture of beans, salsa, mole, and milk staining my shirt. Hoping I could lessen the heat at home, I meandered like a drunken amputee trying to feel the pathway with my hands. About halfway, it hit me.  A monsoon of molten lava desperately trying to escape through an exit no bigger than a slurpee straw. 

I'm lactose intolerant. 

I darted forward towards my house but quickly realized any darting would ultimately harm me, my neighbors, and God's glory. That darting accidentally produced a function that rhymes quite well and while I can't be sure of the cause, a squirrel dropped from the tree and spasmed in the road. 

I yelled in pain at another tidal wave attempted exit and tried to move on my tip toes like the dancers I see at Christmas: legs fully adducted. 

The wave of pain subsided briefly and I made a full on dash for my house. 

I've never run so fast. Thankfully, I nearly made. 

I say nearly 'cause I was in my house when the explosion happened. Don't worry, though, I have hard wood floors and the hair on CK's back should regrow once the burns heal. 

Speaking of burning, I cannot even begin to describe the atrocities that exited my body. I think I melted porcelain and I'm pretty sure a nun somewhere had chest pains after that set of words left my mouth. Satan, who had been indwelling my lower intestines, escaped, leaving behind a burning ring of fire. 

The pain was so bad I contemplated ending it all by jumping in the tub with a hair dryer but God's mercies are new and like a siren song, I heard the playful tune "Hey Diddle Diddle" waft like "Amazing Grace" in my ears. I ran past the splatters in my living room, out my front door, knocked my neighbor's kid out of the way, and pulled the ice cream man close to my blood shot eyes, "Take my money!" I growled. 

I threw my credit card at him, grabbed a bomb pop, and seconds later, exhaled a sigh of relief as the icy red, white and blue-ness cooled the fiery storm. 

My credit card identity was stolen, I am paying for my neighbor's kid's therapy sessions, and I still have to pay for the meal. I would give Primosa Taqueria a 2 out of 10. If you love America and freedom, don't go there.