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According to my dad, the best places to eat are restaurants frequented by police officers.

“Think about it,” Big Smitty told me, “The cops are out on their beat all day, every day, driving around the neighborhoods.  And they get hungry.  They find the best Mom-and-Pop spots.  Trust me.  You want to eat a cities best food?  Follow a cop.”

So, imagine my amazement when I walked into El Burrito Mercado, the family owned Mexican market and restaurant on the West Side of St. Paul, and standing before me were two St. Paul cops.  They stood in front of us in the small cafeteria style line.  The cops didn’t even look at the menu.
“I’m going with the spicy beef quesadilla tonight,” the cop said eagerly.

“Would you like a platter?” the friendly cashier asked.

“Oooooh….yeah.” the cop replied.  The cashier plopped a mound of rice and beans onto his plate.  Then she filled a sizzling hot tortilla with shredded beef.  You could practically hear the Velcro straps on the cop’s Kevlar vest stretching out.

The second cop tried ordering in Spanish.  It was choppy and sounded like marbles were rolling around in his mouth.  But he got major points for trying.

“You’re getting better,” a worker told him.

“I’m practicing my Spanish,” the cop said, as he turned towards my family.  “I’m retiring to Mexico in five years.”  We nodded our heads in agreement:  that was an awesome idea.

El Burrito Mercado is so authentic that people don’t go there just to grocery shop and eat.  They go there in preparation of living in Mexico.  And Lord knows I could use a serious lesson in Chicano culture myself.  As I ordered our food, I fumbled with the Spanish words.  My Minnesota accent was so thick you could practically deep fry it, put it on a stick, and serve it at the State Fair.  The patient food counter workers helped me along, easing me into a successful order.

The bottles of Coke had real cane sugar.  The quesadillas had real melted Mexican cheese.  My wife’s Nachos Mexicanos were plate licking good.  I tried to sneak a couple of chips and beans and guacamole off the plate, but Sarah snapped at me like an angry badger.

As we ate, I watched a Mexican man walk slowly up to the counter and look up at the menu.  He pulled out his wallet and checked his cash level.  He ordered, got his food, and took a seat near me. The man was wearing Carhart pants and a short sleeve Dickie’s uniform shirt.  The worker tore into his meal.  His hands and forearms were dusty, covered with the grit of his labor.  As he ate quietly, he lifted his arms to put some extra elbow into his scoops.  I was still dressed in my own work battered Carharts and was eating my just-off-shift meal as well.  We made eye contact.  I nodded and so did he, one working man to another.

After we ate, my family tooled around the small market.   There were rows of Mexican moles, salsa, and canned products.  There was a deli countered with authentically prepared dishes and slabs of meat.  We even found dried hibiscus and shrimp.  Needless to say, it wasn’t the lily white Lunds that we usually shop at.  When we left, a man held the front door open for my family.  I’ll give you one guess as to who it was.  Yep.  A cop.  Imagine that.

July 3rd Kids Mariachi 5:30-6:30pm, Ol’Skool 4th of July Pachanga Party

July 24th, 30th Anniversary Fiesta.