Andrew S.
Google
Mercado Manhattan Beach: A Review That’s 90% Enthusiasm, 10% Queso Coma
I walked into Mercado Manhattan Beach expecting solid tacos and left questioning whether I’d just experienced peak human achievement or simply overdosed on crema. The answer, it turns out, is both.
Let’s start with the star of the show: the Al Pastor Tacos. These little corn-tortilla miracles arrive looking like they’ve been drizzled by a hyperactive Jackson Pollock who only owns green paint and a grudge against restraint. The pork is shaved so thin it’s basically prosciutto’s tropical cousin, caramelized toueto edges that taste like someone figured out how to bottle campfire. Then they hit it with pineapple that somehow manages to be both sweet and aggressively tangy—like if piña colada grew up and started doing CrossFit. Topped with onions, cilantro, and enough green sauce to power a small salsa cartel. One bite and I actually whispered “dios mío” unironically. My dining companion heard me and nodded solemnly, as if we’d just witnessed a religious event.
Up next: the Queso Fundido, which should come with a warning label and a waiver. This is not “cheese dip.” This is molten queso Oaxaca doing its best impersonation of a lava flow in a cute little bowl. Chorizo chunks bob around like spicy little life rafts. You will attempt to be civilized with the provided tortillas. You will fail. You will resort to spoon. You will consider bathing in it. The waiter will pretend not to notice when you guard the bowl like Gollum with the One Ring.
And then, because apparently we hate ourselves, we ordered the Flautas de Pollo. Picture taquito’s fancy older sister who went to culinary school in Guadalajara and came back with strong opinions about presentation. Perfectly rolled, fried to a shattering crisp, then piled so high with lettuce, crema, queso fresco, and pico that it looks like a edible Jenga tower. One wrong move and you’re wearing half of it. Worth it.
Service was the kind of attentive that makes you feel mildly famous—like the staff genuinely wants you to have the best night of your life, and they’re willing to sprint for extra limes to make it happen. Cocktails are dangerously good (the mezcal situation is reckless), and the patio is prime South Bay people-watching real estate.
Only complaint: portions are aggressively generous, which feels like a trap. I left in what can only be described as a full-body food hug, waddling to my car while mentally drafting my will to leave everything to Mercado.
10/10, would sell my soul for more of that green sauce. Bring stretchy pants and zero shame.