Eddy Roger Parker
Google
Mas Mex, less Tex.”
It reads like a challenge. A line in the sand. In a city where Tex-Mex has long drowned itself in neon, in drive-thrus slinging queso-covered everything, in the easy lull of the familiar.
But Modesto Taco Tequila Whiskey is not here for comfort. It’s here for something sharper, something that cuts.
The sting of fresh lime against slow-braised meats.
The whisper of warm masa, still breathing from the press.
Heat—not just the kind that sears your tongue, but the kind that lingers, that reminds you of where you came from.
It sits in South Gate Village, orbiting LSU, where students, locals, and the lost all crash into each other looking for something real.
Here, tortillas aren’t an afterthought. They’re pressed every morning,
salsas pulled from the earth and the flame, coaxed into something alive. Every choice—intentional. Every bite—a declaration.
Flounder ceviche arrives first. Cool, clean, an electric jolt of lime and orange slicing through the silk of avocado. Jalapeño, pico de gallo—fresh, bright, crackling with life. A reminder that food, at its best, has a pulse.
Then, three tacos. Three stories. Three lessons in labor and insistence.
The Chicken Adobado—grilled, rubbed down in adobo so deep it seeps into the bones. A hit of chile verde, sharp and unapologetic. Cilantro, onion, radish—fresh, raw, defiant.
The Carne Asada—skirt steak, charred at the edges, kissed by flame. Oaxaca cheese melts into its grain like it was always meant to be there. Pico, guacamole sauce—acid, fat, heat. The kind of balance that only looks effortless.
The Cabo Shrimp—Louisiana wild-caught, grilled, kissed by salt and fire. Mango pico, dangerously close to too sweet, then pulled back by cabbage, crema, avocado. Layers of texture. Layers of memory.
These aren’t just tacos. They’re places. Names. A past that refuses to be erased.
This is not replication. Not compromise.
Modesto doesn’t bend, doesn’t dilute. It stands firm. A reclamation. A reminder of what was always here—waiting.