I have my esoteric money-doesn’t-matter dining life. And I have my ethnic adventure, no-dive-too-low-down world. Not to mention the in-between of pursuing the best of the best eating city in the world. At least, the world I know. I’ve never been to Estonia.

A long lemonade can survive a longish wait for tacos at Fonda.

          So, of course I was game for a taco crawl organized by Hagan Blount and Katie Smith-Adair, his partner -- romantically and professionally in PlaceInvaders, a ninja dinner site I discovered a few weeks ago. Hagan was in search of taco truth as he had tracked it in years of criss-crossing Mexico on his motorbike. They invited Lawrence, the NYCFoodGuy.

We’re early but not early enough to beat the local cognoscenti for the tight little tables.

          We launched into outer space gingerly with a stop at Taqueria y Fonda on Amsterdam in Manhattan Valley before trekking north into Spanish Harlem. I didn’t see much hope for snaring one of the few tables in the relentlessly florescent closet-size joint. It was already packed with local cognoscenti and a stand-up fridge chilling Mexican beer. Just our huddle of four in the path between kitchen and two tops along the wall created a roadblock.

I let our Taco Crawl leader engage the waiter in his commanding Spanish menu talk.

          But the guy with the order pad agrees we can stuff ourselves around a just-vacated two-top. Someone had warned that dropping a Fonda burrito on the table could make it buckle. Jada Yuan, writing in New York, high on the authentic made-to-order cooking of the Guerrero province, suggested taking advantage of free delivery till midnight and using the burrito as a dumbbell to work off some calories. A few cranky yelpsters advised mopping up excellent salsas with the toasted house-made tortillas and skipping unchewable meats.

Fonda’s amuse: Housemade chips with three salsas, enough to keep us going for the longish wait.

          But our mission is tacos, especially those stuffed with odd body parts -- tripe, tongue, ear. We sip beer or sweet lemonade in milkshake glasses and attack the freebies -- crunchy house-made chips and a trio of spritely salsas: salsa verde with tomatillo, a fiery cilantro dip with jalapeño and raw onion and a guajillo red. It seems to be taking forever. The sweet-natured waiter brings a second round of chips and then another tumbler of fiery green. Still, when it takes more than 20 minutes to score six tacos, you feel secure they are being made by hand.

The house excels in body parts: Satiny tongue, crispy tripe, and chewy pig’s ear.

          At last a trio of our offal choices arrives -- crusty tripe ($3.95), satiny tongue ($4.25) and chewy ear ($3.95) -- all similarly tossed with cilantro, chopped tomato and onion, caramelized and raw. Sadly, I realize Hagan has only ordered one taco of each flavor and the four of us must share. I guess we’re pacing ourselves for the tastings ahead. I take my one bite, spritz on a bit of lime, and steal a teeny second. The tripe alone makes Fonda worth the trip.

Taqueria y Fonda is proud of its on line recognition.

          I like the al pastor too (marinated, roasted, steeped in pineapple), less so the cactus taco and the air-dried pork (cesina). But now Hagan is getting us primed for the house’s $12.95 Alambre -- a glutton’s unbridled gluttony.  Our chosen ingredient, carne asada, arrives in a free-form toss of guacamole, salad greens, onions, bacon, green peppers and the stringiest cheese I’ve ever wrestled with, all piled atop a trio of tortillas.

Late-comers pace the pavement of Amsterdam, restlessly waiting for tables to turn.

          Our team manages to extricate one of those exemplary wrappers -- I am honored to be awarded the first. The second tears. The waiter goes off for a fresh batch that must be warmed and toasted while my pals try pileups on chips. Hagan is disappointed. “There ought to be more bacon,” he says. “It should be chopped and scattered. There’s not enough guacamole.”

El Aguila signals its more-or-less 24 hour-day-welcome with neon and a sombrero’d mascot at the door.

          And the guacamole is not exactly thrilling either, I observe, as we divide the new tortillas, forking up and saucing like people who are still hungry. Still, not a bad aperitivo for $15 per person. On the sidewalk, clusters of Fonda fans mill about restlessly, waiting for a table.

          “Auténtica” is certainly a virtue. But I should probably confess I discovered my favorite local tacos in January 2010, when Cascabel Taqueria arrived on Second Avenue with a chef of Russian-Lithuanian ancestry, a Cuban-Chinese partner and a designer from Northport, Long Island.

Hagan overcomes his despair that the house has no tongue tonight to oversees our taco order here.

          Anyway, our taco crawl has led us to 116th Street, the heart of Spanish Harlem, once exclusively Puerto Rican. Note that it’s named Luis Muñoz Marin Boulevard for the Puerto Rican poet, journalist and politician. That was before the later migration of Mexicans, now the city’s fastest growing population, inspired El Aguila. 

El Aguila’s short-order cook harvests the steam table, then crisps the meat on the plancha.

          What you want to know about our El Aguila -- a blast of light and neon -- is that bargain prices, $4.99 breakfasts, $1.29 tamales, help-yourself free pickled carrots and jalapeños, and orchestrate-your-own tortas are in its favor. But the big come-on is that it’s open 24 hours a day, more or less. There have been complaints that the crew stops taking orders once in a while when they get cranky.

Flying over our metal table with attached seats is a screaming eagle with a writhing snake in its mouth.

          There is one intense woman, eating solo, when we pull in after 9 pm and as we sit, a couple of carry-outs. Hagan is justly bummed out that there is no tongue tonight -- “No lengua?” he cries, clearly betrayed. The house is also out of his favorite side -- corn doused with mayo and cheese.

          Behind a glass barrier is a big steam table of ingredients ready to warm up on the grill. That means you can curate your own burrito. For some people that might be very meaningful. Our al pastor taco is sweet with pineapple, better than the roast pork carnitas and the goat. But a spicy chopped chorizo taco is my favorite. We douse it with extra salsa verde and listless guacamole. (For me, guacamole -- like pizza and sex -- can be good even when it isn’t great.)

The house’s taco al pastor is virtually a metaphor for pineapple-upside-down cake. Salsa verde helps. 

          But watery pineapple juice, chilled by a giant block of ice that has been melting all day, is an insult even for $2. On the wall above our colorful metal table with seats attached is a screaming eagle with a snake in its mouth. I won’t take that personally. Above the next table is a framed certificate of distinction from the Mexican government for “great follow-up of the Mexican gastronomy culinary techniques and the consumption of Mexican products.” Our check is for $15.93.

          Tapas disappointment can lead to cuchifritos. We follow Hagan across the street to another brightly lit shop. “Cuchifritos Frituras,” the neon roars. Maria, a smiling nymphet in a tight black hairnet, grabs a huge chunk of meat from the window display and chops it into small squares with her cleaver.

With endearing sweetness, Maria snags a hunk of pork and hacks it into edible squares with her cleaver.

          Katie goes outside to take a phone call. For me, it’s a macha moment. I take a bite of the slightly warmed pork, pull out a layer of fat and chew some flesh and outer skin. Being too salty is the least of its sins. Even Hagan can only eat a couple of pieces. Lawrence asks to have the rest bagged.  He will find a homeless man. 168 West 116th Street, 212 876 4846. 

Capri Bakery’s window is an uptown FAO Schwartz of brilliantly decorated cakes.

          Half a block away is another beacon of desire: Capri Bakery. “Bizcochos and Pan Caliente” (sweet pastry and warm bread), it says in neon. The lineup of fancy cakes in the window -- SpongeBob SquarePants, Hello Kitty, Super Mario -- hint of an uptown Sylvia Weinstock, definitely a playful master, priced accordingly.  Inside, a young man deftly transports just-frosted fancy cakes to a refrigerator.

Inside, the array of cheap oversized pastries is dazzling. Shouldn’t I buy something for breakfast?

          In the interior display case are oversized versions of everyday treats -- cherry turnovers ($2.50), cheese Danish ($2.25), brownies ($3) and cookies for $1. I seem to be mesmerized by the size of everything. Or maybe a trance of fat and salt explains why I didn’t at least buy a $1 “ROGALAH” to carry home for breakfast.

A bakery worker totes just-frosted fancy cakes, two at a time, to Capri’s stand-up refrigerator.

          Lawrence has ordered two giant donuts, hot out of the fat, too hot to eat. “Please,” he urges, “Help yourself.” I wait a few minutes. My junk food gene takes over. The combination of heat and sweet is so good. Hagan marches toward the car, spooning up a monumental wedge of flan, urging us to taste.  “It’s very firm,” he observes. “But I like it. It could use a little more syrup,” he says.

Hagan emerges with a monster wedge of flan, firm and sweet, eager to share. I’m too full of donut.

          On the way home we are already planning another outing. “Have you ever explored the Bronx?” I ask.

186 Luis Munoz Boulevard between Lexington and Third Avenues 212 410 1876. Open 6 am to 11 pm.

Photos may not be used without permission of Gael Greene. Copyright 2014. All rights reserved.

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