This may be the toughest obituary I'll ever write. La Gonzales has shuttered, and taken the cheapest, best tacos in Boulder back to Guadalajara. This is not a good day.
I found the place through a recommendation from my buddy Rob, who in turn heard about it from another friend, Andy. Rob and Andy are good cycling buddies, and would routinely spend hours in the saddle on the roads around Boulder. The two would spin up north to Lyons, or west, up the winding mountain roads to Jamestown. After enough miles and suffering, they'd head back to town with food on their minds. Somehow, Andy had heard about this little taqueria behind the Fascinations porn outlet, and after a ride one day, the two of them snuck in for some post ride snacks.
Once Rob had been introduced, he realized that he and I would need to expend far less energy in order to reap the rewards of carne asada, tacos al carbon, or, my eventual favorite, tacos al pastor. La Gonzales was in a small strip mall that not only abutted the adult superstore, but also the Boulder Rock Club. Rob is one of my most consistent climbing partners, and I'd say that on any given year, we go to the BRC together about 80 times. That would give us plenty of opportunity to get in a workout on greasy plastic holds, talk shit about the anorexic guys in tanktops, and then stroll across the alley to our favorite Mexican eatery.
Rob had always maintained that the true test with a girl would be the "La Gonzales sink or swim". See, La Gonzales made no attempt at assimilation. If you've ever been to an "Abarrote", or corner market, in El Salvador or rural Mexico, you've got an idea. The interior could best be described as drab. There were soccer jerseys and the occasional pinata hanging as decoration, but generally the walls were white, the produce slightly below Whole Foods vanity standard. He reasoned that, given the bare-bones interior complete with cheap, chicken wire shelving, the flourescent lighting buzzing overhead, and the general dearth of English being spoken, if you could take a date to La Gonzales, you could find out pretty quickly if she could hang. It's not necessarily a scientifically recommended way to determine partnership suitability, but for whatever reason, I gravitated towards the logic of his proposed test.
Soon after Rob and I began making semi regular trips to La Gonzales, I started dating Kate. I'll admit, I didn't trust in the sink or swim test with all my heart, so I waited for a few weeks before I took her out for the fine dining experience. Admittedly, it gave me a good chance to show off my Spanish skills gleaned from two semesters spent drunk in Spain. But likewise, I had begun to grow a real affinity for the folks who worked there. Like I said, they were more comfortable speaking Spanish to the patrons, and I had a bonding moment when my stepmom came up to Boulder for some ethnic food.
Joey was writing a book about places in Denver and Boulder that served distinct food from around the world. Given the sizable Hispanic population of the vicinity, Joey was hesitant to focus too heavily on Mexican food. I tried to convince her that this wouldn't be typical Tex-Mex, but something totally unique, and when she first set foot into the grocery-turned-taco stand, I think she became a believer.
For her book, she would take a crew out to whichever restaurant she'd review, and basically beg us to order the weirdest dishes we could pronounce. For other reviews, I'd eaten cactus, alligator, and a stew that actually put hair on my feet. At La Gonzales, I scarfed down some menudo and buche. For the uninitiated, that's beef tripe and pork cheek (face not butt).
Kate hit the deep end in a perfect swan dive, and got full marks from all the judges, even the grumpy French one. It wasn't long that the two of us were making our own routine trips to the BRC, following them up with a regal stuffing of tacos. I like to think that we were the strange white couple who kept stumbling in, happy to eat whatever was served on our tortillas, so long as the salsa and lime juice was plentiful, and the onions and cilantro fresh. We even gave a stern attempt to decipher the soap opera that seemed to be running in constant loop on the TV in the background. I guess, though, we didn't stumble in enough.
Katie and I mentioned to each other more than once our nervousness that the place would go under. Most times when we would be there to eat, there would be one or two other diners, but never more. The friendly faces behind the counter would fill us up for $10, and we reasoned that there was no way they could afford to remain open when they were charging such a paltry amount. Tonight, we confirmed our worst fears. The Mediterranean Market stood where before, we'd happily yelled "hola!" when we walked in the door. "Opa!" just isn't the same.
After the two of us shook off the shock of the new marquee and window dressings, we made sad eye contact and came to understand that our fears had been realized. We kept the car parked on the street for just long enough to nearly get sideswiped, and rolled along at a sad, idle speed. We finally decided on Illegal Pete's, another local Boulder place, though this one a chain and serving college students pesto burritos to a soundtrack of Weezer. Different feel, and even if it's still good, it just ain't the same.
La Gonzales, you'll be seriously missed.
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