If you don’t know who this guy is you’ve probably never seen a Robert Rodriguez movie, or Heat, the greatest cops and robbers flick of all time. Here in the heart of L.A. you can throw a rock and hit a Trejo’s Tacos or one of his other culinary endeavors such as Trejo’s Donuts or Trejo’s Cantina. The joints are marked by the patented graphic of Mr. Danny Trejo’s face plastered not only on the side of the buildings but everywhere.

Inside the restaurant itself this logo is festooned from floor to ceiling. On the hotsauce bottles, the napkins, the beers, even the taco liners on the bottom of the plate. This sort of brand recognition always reminds me of the movie Spaceballs where they make fun of this sort of blatant, annoying capitalist branding. Hey, I get it, Trejo has to eat too but I wondered if I went into the bathroom if his face would be on the toilet paper.

I visited the Farmers Market in the Fairfax District for the first time. Yeah, nine years living in this post apocalyptic wasteland and I never once went to one of the coolest parts of it. I’ve driven by the place several hundred times at this point always thinking it was a grocery store. Yes, it’s located on the backside of The Grove which is basically the ninth circle of hell, but hey listen, the Farmers Market is the opposite side of the coin. The yin to The Grove’s yang. It’s this cool little amalgam of different food stalls, butchers, shops, and awesome out of the way beer bars. It has a bit of a carnival feel to it except that it’s clean and there’s no creepy carnies prowling around (small hands, smell like cabbage). In fact, it was quite busy on a Wednesday afternoon and I already want to go back sometime because, well, it was fun and it’s sort of close to where I live.

When I saw a Trejo’s Tacos there I knew I had to try it. Not because everyone raves about the food, but because Trejo is cool. He may be the coolest person ever.

I think I became aware of Danny Trejo by watching the Robert Rodriguez movie, Desperado. He appears as this badass looking knife wielding assassin. A dude with a giant tattoo on his pumped up chest, sporting a fu manchu mustache and a slicked back ponytail. He’s eventually dispatched, not by Antonio Banderas, but by some other guy and does quite well even though he brings knives to a gun fight.

Trejo started appearing all over the place at some point in the mid to late nineties. Playing the getaway driver in Heat and later starring in his own franchise entitled, Machete, also written and directed by Robert Rodriguez, a hyper violent sort of throw back series which poked fun at the old school ultra machismo flicks of years past where the main character was indestructible.

Anyway, let’s get to the damn tacos. Here’s the menu:

In true dad bod mode, I went for the carnitas, barbacoa, and the Baja fish. The whole shebang ended up being just over $20 with tip.

The fish taco was quite delicious, but you could batter and fry a dog turd and it would taste good with enough aioli, hot sauce, and slaw. No? The other tacos were pretty decent, I mean, here’s the thing, there’s some truly awesome taco stands in L.A. and if you go to a Trejo’s instead of to your favorite truck or not food safety regulated, dimly lit place on the side of the road that may or may not give you explosive diarrhea, then you’re just not doing it right around here. But hey, if you’re a glutton like myself (I finished the three tacos quite easily and then set upon my son’s french fries) then you’ll eat here, enjoy that they pile the meat up nice and high and then later think about how you haven’t gone to your favorite place lately that costs half as much and is ten times better. That said, on a Wednesday afternoon at the Farmer’s Market I was in a great mood after eating Trejo’s Tacos before I was dragged to The Grove and stood outside goddam Sephora for a half an hour holding a mewling newborn who had a diaper full of shit in one arm and keeping an eye on my wandering toddler with the constant paranoia he’d be snatched by a pedophile while my wife was in there doing who knows what women do inside that god awful bastion of face paint and acne inducing products. In her defense my frustration was exacerbated by the long line of lost souls waiting for the latest Taylor Swift album pop up, whatever the hell that means, (it means there’s a lot of idiots in this world) and listening to, yup, you guessed it, Taylor Swift blasting over the speakers. Oh man. It’s a good thing I’m not a “superhero” like the Incredible Hulk or I would have hit my stress limit, grown to monstrous proportions, and wiped The Grove off the map once and for all while singing Tom Waits tunes at the top of my lungs.

Does anyone else feel like this questionable Taylor Swift propaganda craze is some diabolical, inescapable plot to further bring down the levels of intelligence and good taste in this cold, cruel but also sometimes beautiful world? Is it bad that as soon as I see a picture of her or hear the drivel emanating from her mouth I seethe with anger? Asking for a friend.

Side note: I just realized the whole premise of The Incredible Hulk is about white man’s rage. Yeah. Think about it.

Afterwards, I did visit Barnes and Noble for a moment to pick up the third novel in the Dune series, Children of Dune, so I guess the trip wasn’t wasted.