I pride myself on being the kind of person who loves San Francisco and Los Angeles. I’ve never understood how a true Californian could hate either one. Each city is half of a north/south yin and yang of urban perfection that has helped convince generations of Californians that they are truly a blessed people. We get two amazing cities. Even New York just has that one.
I was raised in a suburb 20 miles from downtown LA, and I moved to San Francisco four years ago. I find myself constantly torn between the two towns. When I’m at my parents’ house for the holidays, I dream of the Golden Gate Bridge, take-out dim sum, sunburned Dolo Saturdays and evening fog so thick, you can’t see the sidewalk across the street.
I rarely start SF-vs.-LA arguments, because I’m never able to pick a side, and I’ve never really wanted to.
And unlike many residents of San Francisco, I have always loved Los Angeles—the “Hollywood” sign, the palm trees, the endless urban/suburban sprawl that fosters an unmatched degree of social and cultural diversity. I even like the driving. The vehicular autonomy of piloting your own car through a sea of Hollywood Bowl traffic after a concert is something a midnight Muni ride home from the Fillmore will never be able to replace.
I rarely start SF-vs.-LA arguments because I’m never able to pick a side, and I’ve never really wanted to. Yet there is one inescapable difference that I simply cannot ignore anymore: that between the two cities’ burritos.
The Great SF/LA Burrito Debate™ has forced me to reckon with huge anxiety-inducing gastronomic questions deep into the night: What kind of burrito lover am I? What about my friends? My family? What burritos do they like? Can I live with their choices? Why do they insist on ruining their burritos with sour cream? Why does everybody in San Francisco give me the side eye when I ask for refried beans? Why does everyone have such a hard-on for sliced avocado?
I should explain.
As the average Bold Italic reader probably knows, San Francisco’s most recognizable Mexican food is the Mission-style burrito, an unctuous combination of rice, whole beans (black or pinto), grilled meat, avocado, sour cream and pico de gallo impeccably rolled into a massive foil-sheathed bundle as thick and weighty as Usain Bolt’s calf. Mission-style burritos are a ubiquitous late-night food, a gut-busting grocery-budget stretcher, a hyperbolic cylinder of NorCal Latino pride. SF is terrifically fond of its signature meal (suck it, $40 cioppino!), even after the concept was hijacked by Chipotle.
The average LA burrito would be called a regular burrito in San Francisco — the super burrito is hardly the go-to that it is up north.
The Mission-style burrito stands in stark contrast to LA’s version. Burritos in the Southland are rarely bursting at the seams, although they tend to be rolled with less finesse (the top of the burrito is frequently left unfolded). The average LA burrito would be called a regular burrito in San Francisco — the super burrito is hardly the go-to that it is up north. At Al and Bea’s, an East LA institution that has been open since 1966, the standard burrito contains only beans (always refried), shredded yellow cheese and a dash of either red or green salsa (the saucy kind, not pico de gallo). They are simple, messy and incredibly delicious, and while they’re not as famous nationally as the Mission-style burrito, they’re still as integral to the soul of the city as its northern counterpart.
Both burritos, in the eyes of someone from the opposite half of the state, are openly scorned as though they are sins against the God of food. To an Angeleno, the Mission-style burrito is an overwrought horror show, a shamefully overstuffed meal that trades soul for sheer mass. The salsa and sour cream overload as well as the constant fight between meat, bean, cheese and rice: it overwhelms the palate. No one ingredient, no matter how well made, is able to shine after being compacted into one of those foil-wrapped monstrosities.
And, hey, calm down, SF. I know there’s plenty to say about LA’s burritos too. They’re puny. They lack texture. The mostly liquid fillings tend to result in a limp, malleable burrito, one that’ll shoot molten cheese onto your wrist if you clench it too tightly. The LA burrito shares plenty of DNA with the noxious offerings from Taco Bell or your local gas-station freezer case. To most San Franciscans, an LA burrito is less a burrito than a lard-soaked Mexican Hot Pocket.
It’s hard for us to disown the foods we grew up eating. Just ask a Southerner how they prefer their BBQ or a New Yorker which pizza slice is the best. Odds are, their answer will be the one they grew up closest to.
Regardless, I’m partial to the Los Angeles–style burrito. It’s closer to something my grandmother might’ve served me. (What Mexican household ever served up homemade Mission-style burritos for dinner? Imagine how long it would take to properly cook every ingredient at home.) And the short ingredient list means that every component of the burrito is allowed to shine. The simplicity is alluring, in the same way that a few pieces of tuna nigiri might appeal more than a deep-fried Black Widow roll. An enormous, tricked-out Mission-style burrito just feels wrong when I’m craving the Spartan simplicity of an LA burrito.
It’s hard for us to disown the foods we grew up eating. Just ask a Southerner how they prefer their BBQ or a New Yorker which pizza slice is the best. Odds are, their answer will be the one they grew up closest to. Burrito preference works the same way.
All San Franciscans and Angelenos are Californians. United under the indomitable bear flag, generations of Californians—through ingenuity, passion and faith in possibility—have shaped this world for the better. Can we not accept each other’s cuisine? Must we scoff at how our fellow statespeople prefer their Mexican food? Can we not dream of a Great California Burrito Peace? After all, we could be living in NYC, where, I think, they learned about Mexican food sometime in 1998.
Author’s note: Those California burritos San Diegans love so much have been intentionally excluded. Appropriating “California” for a burrito that’s 60% French fry is inexcusable. Nothing classy about that, SD.
