This past weekend, the boyfriend and I hit up the Alameda Swap Meet in Vernon for a molcajete. We didn’t swap anything, but we sure found a lot of meat.

Vernon is literally a no-man’s-land. Its population is officially listed as 91, making Wikipedia’s rundown of its demographics an exercise in statistical meaninglessness. Its town slogan is, I’m not kidding, “Exclusively Industrial.” Driving south from the 10 along Alameda, you can see factories, warehouses, warehouses, factories and a couple guys  cooking chicken over modded oil drums. Someday I’ve got to try that.

And then there’s the swap meet, a collection of giant buildings straddling the main thoroughfare, humming with the activity of hundreds of presumable non-Vernonites. Inside each building are rows upon rows of stalls selling T-shirts, lingerie, DVDs, herbal supplements, toys, electronics, and, well, anything that can be cheaply knocked off. There’s some good stuff, too, like a cowboy boot vendor shaping and conditioning leather soles, surrounded by a cadre of be-hatted customers. Or a flurry of quinceanera dresses, each more reminiscent of a wedding cake than the last. It’s all quite overwhelming, especially if your Spanish isn’t so great.

Amidst all those wares, I could only find two cookware stores, one on each side of Alameda Street. Both sold tortilla warmers, comales, clay and metal pots, tamale steamers…none of that ornamental Olvera Street crap for these folks. At the second store, I found my Holy Grail: a hand-carved molcajete shaped like a pig. The sales lady even let me pick out my own tejolote, assuring me that an hourglass shape was the way to go.

The food courts - again, one on each side of Alameda, which Pomona grads would be pleased to know is also called Route 47 - are a thing of beauty. Larger, more established taco stands alternate with smaller tables specializing in one or two types of antojitos. Elotes abound, as do fruity, wholesome aguas frescas and the ubiquitous bacon-wrapped hot dog carts, but the big draw is the meat. Think of any animal or animal part and it’s probably there, sizzling, bubbling, steaming and frying, melding with masa and vegetables and spices in glorious, glorious harmony.

Here’s what we tried.

Cabeza, asada and carnitas tacos. Even though I know full well where cabeza comes from, seeing a giant cow skull just braising away in its steam tray, like, six inches away from me was a bit of a shock. But one taste of the moist, slightly gelatinous head meat was enough to assure me that the skull’s owner had not died in vain. The carne asada tasted like steak in a tortilla. Beefy with a slight char, toothy without being overly chewy, it put the dryish griddled bits at Taco Zone to shame. They weren’t as seasoned as some tacos I’ve had, but perhaps that was intentional - the quality of the meat really shone through.

Taco dorado de barbacoa. This was new to me: a taco stuffed with beef (I think) and deep-fried. The sensation of a chewy-crunchy tortilla shell giving way to soft shredded beef is something that someone should really find a way to package and market. Get the bubble wrap keychain people on it.

Taco de birria. I knew I had to try this as soon as I saw the hunk of goat meat in its metal vat, steam gently rising off its surface, its attentive caretaker basting it every thirty seconds or so. The resulting taco filling was impossibly tender - I could’ve fed it to a baby, if I had one - and imbued with a rich braising liquid that tasted of hours and hours of flavor-building. Next time, I’m getting the soup.

Taco de pastor. One of the bigger taco stands, Tacos Guadalajara, was dominated by a rotating, toddler-sized mass of al pastor pork. Having missed my chance to try genuine al pastor from the stands in Tijuana (I was there to see the dentist, and even the spiciest salsas can’t stand up to a mouthful of Novocaine), I was eager to grab a bite of this, the next best thing. It didn’t disappoint. The pork was spicy from its chile-vinegar marinade and a bit sweet from the pineapple hanging out on top of the spit, slightly caramelized by fire in a way that appeals to one’s inner caveman: Meat. Fire. Good.

Things I wanted to try but didn’t have room for: tacos de canasta (little soft tacos steamed in a basket), pupusas the size of Frisbees, freshly steamed corn tamales, seafood soup from Mariscos Diablo, and a bevy of cow parts I’d be hard-pressed to find around Echo Park, including cesos (read: braiiins.) I’ll be back! But I’ll have to starve myself for about a week beforehand.

My molcajete’s name is Albert Pastor, and I can’t wait to make my first batch of guacamole inside him. That sounds wrong.

GO:
4501 S Alameda St
Los Angeles, CA 90058