The taquito! It’s a tiny dream in a tortilla — simplicity incarnate, endlessly amenable. Hardly as ubiquitous as its sibling the taco, and slightly less elaborate than the sauced enchilada, it can come smothered in queso fresco and lettuce, if that’s how you’d prefer it, or unadorned in a paper wrap, or spread atop smoking pastel plates.
Recipe: Chorizo Taquitos
Also known as tacos dorados or rolled tacos, taquitos — “little tacos” in Spanish — typically consist of a tortilla (most commonly corn, though sometimes flour) wrapped around a protein base and either pan- or deep-fried. Its many iterations vary across regions and seasons. You could stuff yours with shredded chicken or beef, or opt for refried beans and diced avocados.
The dish evokes time and place. Though its roots might be attributed to the Mexican flauta, the taquito’s origins are varyingly tied to early-20th-century California. They manage to speak directly to your immediate situation, whether you’ve brought them to your dinner table or your bar stool or the dashboard of your car.
On the Whataburger menu, a less traditional form of the taquito holds a place of distinction. Established in 1950 in Corpus Christi, Texas, the burger chain has since spread across more than a dozen states in the South and Southwest, with more than 940 locations. All feature the familiar orange-and-white W, which you can spot on a clear, broad day along I-10, or well into the evening through thick Houston fog.
In the decades since its inception, Whataburger has become a semi-regional icon — many Texans swear by their local locations, opting to order only specific dishes at specific godforsaken times. While the chain is known for its burgers, the Whataburger taquito, available from 11 at night to 11 in the morning, is especially notable — and the experience varies depending on your mood or tolerance or sobriety.
What makes taquitos especially dreamy is how they weave into the rhythms of daily life.
If you ask a drinking-age Houstonian for a Whataburger story, there’s a good chance they’ll throw a litany in your face: I’ve eaten Whataburger taquitos late in the evening after Pride parades, delightfully buzzed and idling next to a table of off-duty drag queens. I’ve scarfed them while jogging from Terminals B — the only terminal with a Whataburger — to E through George Bush Intercontinental Airport. I’ve sat before trays of them, commiserating with friends over bad boyfriends and boring sex. But what makes taquitos especially dreamy is how they weave themselves into the rhythms of daily life: I’ve picked up sacks of Whataburger taquitos en route to help paint friends’ houses. Or as reconciliation gifts after half-baked disagreements. Sometimes, after late nights, I’ll bring a couple back to my place, stuffing them with kimchi and a gochujang-mayo spread, to eat over the stove while marveling at the possibilities for glee in simplicity.
The memories allude to a deeper truth: Where we share a dish is as important as the meal itself. And for many people in Texas, particularly those from marginalized communities, those spaces can be few and far between. As anti-queer and anti-trans legislation continues gestating and circulating and throughout the state, it’s hard to overstate the importance of rooms that are implicitly open to all. And that’s enough to magnify their versatility: A Whataburger can be a queer bar, if you need it to be, or an after-party venue, or a road trip’s reflection point, or just a convenient outlet for an even more convenient bite. The taquito’s presence on their menu makes for an ample accomplice.
Cooking taquitos at home can be as straightforward or complex as you’d like. A simple tortilla wrapped around chorizo, scrambled eggs and shredded cheese does the trick, but embellishing that foundation with herbs and layers of salsa can help. Because you’re bringing forward flavors, sure, but also a moment and an emotion. No matter the template of a recipe, this construction looks different for everyone. And that’s fine.
It’s been awhile, but my last taquito came at the tail end of a very fancy dinner in downtown Houston, the kind you end up leaving without having eaten much of anything at all. The chefs were impeccable. The restaurant’s ambience felt exquisite. But I still found myself at a Whataburger on my way home. Someone was blasting Lizzo from a truck in the restaurant parking lot. Some gays probably on their way back from Montrose — the city’s queer haven — sat sandwiched in the booths. Behind them, teenagers who appeared to be stoned giggled over nothing, beside two women cackling over the end of a relationship, and an older couple chewed silently in tandem from their own booth, illuminated under streetlights by the window.
So I ordered a taquito. Ate it on a curb in the parking lot. It was a reminder that there are as many ways to enjoy a meal as we allow there to be, and as many people to partake.
