The Village Voice trekked all the way out to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, that mystical haven of ironic mustaches and people who make art by vomiting PBR and cheese fries onto a wall, in search of Mexican food:

I had high hopes when I sauntered into Taco Santana, and not only because it called to mind a certain top-notch San Francisco guitarist. […] Like Queens’ premier taco spot, Roosevelt Avenue, it too had trains clattering overhead on grimy elevated tracks.

A loud, grimy location is an excellent indication that a place will have good tacos. As is a noticeable absence of stray dogs. But, alas, our fair reporter met his lunch with some initial disappoinment:

My heart sank when the tacos arrived. Instead of the usual southern Mexican presentation of meat in two soft corn tortillas with chopped raw onions and cilantro, these came topped instead with shredded iceberg and crema, the ambiguous runny substance that provides lubrication but little flavor.

We will refrain from “going there.” Anyway, the writer ended up liking his meal enough to see it fit to ruin Taco Santana by inviting friends. Runny, lubed friends with little flavor:

On a couple of further visits, I brought armies of Mexican-food enthusiasts, mainly Williamsburg artists and writers.

Ok well, we know one place to definitely avoid like the plague. A spandex-leotard-wearing, Parliament-smoking, herpes-ridden plague.

Mexican shoebox on Williamsburg’s Broadway challenges Sunset Park [The Village Voice]