Wedged between auto repair shops, Tamale House usually has a queue running out the broken screen door. The constant revving of a window fan is the sole source of air in what is essentially just a kitchen and counter. It’s filthy: grimy glass, dusty warped wood, stained ceiling tiles. The “salsa bar” is a bowing formica shelf covered with pink-soaked paper towels and a bus tub overflowing with empty pitchers, a testament to the amount of business they’ve already done by lunchtime. The crowd seems unperturbed by the mess and the heat, which, in the summer, can be oppressive. Four zaftig Hispanic ladies in sleeveless dresses and tank tops chatter amiably with each other, erupting simultaneously in laughter so hearty that you envy them.

There’s no inside dining, of course, and the few shady tables outside are usually full; most orders are to go. There are enchiladas and carne guisada “dinner plates,” but the main draw’s tacos, starting at just 85 cents. Barbacoa’s oily and satisfying, and beef al carbon’s barbecued into sweetish, chewy chunks with jalapeños. Ground beef, lightly spiced, is a bum-out. The style here’s decidedly gringo, which has its fans (obviously). It’s all flour tortillas; tomatoes and lettuce (versus cilantro and onion); and the salsa pitcher marked “XXX Hot” is wussy. Avoid the watery guacamole and migas; instead, go breakfast taco.