The first time I tasted Mexican Birria Tacos that made me stop chewing and just listen to my own mouth, I was standing at a covered stall inside Mercado Hidalgo in Tijuana, three hours into a Saturday morning food walk with a guide named Memo.
The vendor’s name was Doña Rosa. She had a comal the size of a manhole cover and two hands that never stopped moving. We did not share much language. She pointed. I nodded. She slid a folded, rust-stained taco onto a paper plate and tapped a small clay bowl of red broth beside it. That was the lesson.
The Stall Inside Mercado Hidalgo
Memo had taken our small group through six stops already. A cheesemaker. A mole grinder. A woman selling pickled nopales in jars she labels by hand. By the time we got to Doña Rosa’s corner, I was full and barely paying attention.
Then I saw the red fat on her griddle. A shallow lake of it, pooled from a battered ladle, glossy like wet brick. She dipped a tortilla in, slapped it down, and the kitchen smell shifted. Cumin. Toasted chile. Something deeper underneath, almost like clove.
She motioned me closer and pulled the lid off a tall aluminum pot. Inside, dark meat collapsed into itself, half-submerged in chile broth. She tilted the pot toward me so I could see the bright orange slick rising on top. Then she made a scooping gesture and pointed at her own tortillas. The translation was clear enough. The fat on top is the whole point.
A Little Background That Memo Filled In
While Doña Rosa worked, Memo told me what I had not put together. Birria did not start in Tijuana at all. It came from Jalisco, specifically the area around Cocula near Guadalajara, and it was originally made with goat.
The Spanish brought goats to Mexico in the 16th century. The herds went wild, ate everyone’s crops, and locals started slaughtering them out of necessity. The meat was tough and gamey. Someone, somewhere, figured out that a long bath in dried chiles and a slow cook in an earthen pit fixed all of that.
The Spanish called the dish birria, which apparently meant something like worthless. The name stuck. The dish became a celebration food in Jalisco. Weddings, baptisms, Christmas. Also, famously, the Sunday morning cure for too much mezcal the night before.
The taco form, the dipped and griddled one I was eating, is much newer. A taquero named Guadalupe Zárate started serving beef birria as a dipping taco in Tijuana in the 1950s. The cheese-stuffed quesabirria version that took over Instagram came out of Tijuana too, only in the 2010s. Doña Rosa was making something her grandmother would not have recognized, and that was fine. Cities do that.
Carrying It Home to My Kitchen
I flew back into LAX on a Tuesday, sat in traffic for ninety minutes, and went straight to a carniceria in Boyle Heights before I even unpacked. Chuck and a small rack of short ribs. Dried guajillos, anchos, and a small handful of chiles de arbol from a sack the cashier had to weigh on a wobbly scale.
The Mexican oregano and canela I found at the same shop. The Oaxaca cheese I get from a little dairy counter on Olympic that pulls it fresh into strings while you wait. I tried this once with low-moisture mozzarella when I ran out. It works. It is not the same.
The first time I made Mexican Birria Tacos at home I overcooked the chiles on the comal and the adobo came out faintly bitter. Now I pull them at thirty seconds a side, the moment they puff and smell like a campfire.
What I Used
- Boneless beef chuck, cut into big 3 inch chunks
- Bone-in short ribs for the gelatin
- Dried guajillo, ancho, and arbol chiles, toasted and seeded
- Two ripe tomatoes, blackened on a dry comal
- A big white onion, halved and charred, plus more chopped for the table
- Eight cloves of garlic, peeled
- Mexican oregano, ground cumin, whole cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves
- A stubby piece of Mexican canela, around two inches
- Apple cider vinegar
- Kosher salt
- Water or low-sodium beef broth for the braise
- Small corn tortillas, white or yellow
- Oaxaca cheese, pulled into shreds
- Lime wedges, cilantro, salsa de chile de arbol for serving
Inside the Pot
Once everything goes in the Dutch oven, the real work is not yours. It belongs to the meat. I keep mine on the lowest possible flame, the lid heavy enough to trap a thin curl of steam.
For the first hour, almost nothing visible happens. Underneath, the connective tissue in the short ribs is starting to slacken. The collagen begins to dissolve into the broth. That is what gives the consome its body later. Without short ribs you get something thinner. Drinkable, but not the spoon-coating thing you want.
By hour two the chuck has stopped resisting the fork. By hour three the chiles have given everything to the liquid. The kitchen smells like nothing else in the rotation. My downstairs neighbor knocked once, in a friendly way, just to ask.
The red fat is the part most people skim and throw away. Do not. After the meat comes out, let the pot sit ten minutes. The fat will rise into a bright, almost neon, slick on top. Ladle a cup of it into a wide shallow bowl. That is your dipping fat for the tortillas. Without it, you are just making a quesadilla.
Building the Taco
Cast iron, medium-high. I use the heavy round pan a friend in Guadalajara gave me before I left, still slightly warped from the trip home. One tortilla in the fat, both sides, then straight onto the hot iron.
Cheese on half. A spoon of shredded meat moistened with a little consome. Sixty seconds and the underside turns the color of dark rust. Fold. Press gently. Another thirty seconds a side until the cheese gives up.
Crispy on the bottom, soft in the middle where the cheese meets the meat. The edges shatter when you bite in. Hot consome in a small bowl beside it. Dip. Eat. Repeat.
Small Things Worth Fussing Over
Make the meat a day ahead if you can. The chile flavor settles overnight and the fat is much easier to skim cold. Reheat gently and you are halfway to dinner.
The salsa de chile de arbol is not optional in my house. The tacos are already rich. The salsa cuts straight through it. So does a hard squeeze of lime over the open taco right before the last bite.
If you cannot find Oaxaca cheese, low-moisture mozzarella works in a pinch. Chihuahua is closer. I have stopped apologizing for the substitutions. Doña Rosa would not, either.
I make these on Sundays now, mostly. Always too many. Cold leftovers, eaten standing up the next morning. Better than the original, somehow.
Mexican Birria Tacos
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- Heat a dry skillet or comal over medium-high heat. Toast the guajillo, ancho, and arbol chiles for 20 to 30 seconds per side, pressing them flat with tongs, until fragrant and slightly puffed. Do not let them blacken or they will turn bitter.
- Transfer the toasted chiles to a heatproof bowl, cover with very hot water, and weight them down with a plate so they stay submerged. Soak for 20 minutes until soft and pliable.
- On the same comal, char the halved white onion, peeled garlic cloves, and whole tomatoes over medium-high heat, turning until blackened in spots and softened, about 8 to 10 minutes.
- Drain the chiles and transfer them to a blender along with the charred tomatoes, onion, garlic, Mexican oregano, ground cumin, cloves, black peppercorns, apple cider vinegar, and 2 cups of fresh water. Blend on high for 2 to 3 minutes until completely smooth.
- Pour the adobo through a fine mesh strainer set over a bowl, pressing hard with a ladle to push the puree through. Discard the solids left behind. You should have a glossy, brick red sauce.
- Season the beef chuck chunks and short ribs all over with the kosher salt. Place the meat in a large Dutch oven and pour the strained adobo directly over it.
- Add 6 cups of water or low-sodium beef broth along with the cinnamon stick and bay leaves. Stir gently to coat the meat.
- Bring to a boil over high heat, then immediately reduce to a bare simmer. Cover with a tight lid and cook on the lowest stovetop setting, or transfer to a 300 F oven, for 3.5 to 4 hours until the beef shreds easily with a fork.
- Lift the meat out onto a sheet pan. Discard the cinnamon stick and bay leaves. Let the consome rest in the pot for 10 minutes so the bright red fat rises to the top.
- Skim 1 cup of the red fat off the top of the consome and pour it into a wide shallow bowl. This is the dipping fat for the tortillas. Keep the remaining consome hot.
- Shred the beef with two forks, discarding any large pieces of bone or hard fat. Moisten the shredded meat with a ladle of consome and a spoonful of the red fat so it stays glossy and juicy.
- Heat a cast iron griddle or large skillet over medium-high heat. Working one or two at a time, dip a corn tortilla into the bowl of red fat, coating both sides, and lay it flat on the hot griddle.
- Scatter about 2 tablespoons of shredded Oaxaca cheese over half of the tortilla, then top with a generous tablespoon of the shredded birria meat. Cook for about 60 seconds until the underside is reddened and crisp at the edges.
- Fold the tortilla in half over the filling and press gently with a spatula. Cook for another 30 to 45 seconds per side until the cheese melts and the taco is deeply crisp and stained red from the fat.
- Transfer the finished tacos to a warm plate and repeat with the remaining tortillas, fat, cheese, and meat, adjusting heat as needed so the tortillas crisp without burning.
- Ladle hot consome into small bowls, one per person. Serve the crispy tacos immediately alongside the consome for dipping, with chopped white onion, cilantro, lime wedges, and salsa de chile de arbol on the side.