Ina
Google
We went to Taqueria Datapoint on a quiet Tuesday, a couple of days after Easter this year. It had been talked up with the kind of reverence normally reserved for sacred institutions. Proper Mexican food. None of that watered-down Tex-Mex nonsense. Just real, no-compromise flavours from a kitchen that supposedly knows what it’s doing. I was looking forward to it. Genuinely.
We walked in and were greeted kindly. It was no-frills but warm and inviting. The menu read like a hymn sheet to breakfast and comfort. Everything was priced so low it felt like we’d stepped into the past. So we ordered a bit of everything, enough to sample the best of what they had to offer.
Then it happened. I bit into a breakfast taco and immediately felt something catch in my throat. Not just a tickle. A sharp slice of tortilla lodged itself in the wrong place and I started choking. Not the dramatic kind you see on television. The real kind. Silent, frightening, helpless. My partner froze. The dining room disappeared around me.
The waitress noticed and came over straight away. She didn’t panic. She was calm, focused, deeply concerned. I couldn’t speak, and between gestures and instinct we knew we had to leave for the hospital. I stood up, still struggling, ready to pay and go. But she wouldn’t let us pay. “Please, just take care of yourself,” she said. That was it. No fuss. No scene.
It was an unsettling moment and I wish it had gone another way. Because the small bites I did manage were absolutely delightful. The flavours were rich, proper. I could taste the care (literally). And I knew, in a different moment, that this would have been one of the best meals of the trip.
But what I remember most is how the staff treated me. No questions, no hesitation. Just quiet generosity. You don’t get that everywhere. In fact, you rarely do. It takes a certain kind of person to hold grace under pressure, to show kindness without expecting applause. I can’t recommend the place enough. Go visit, you won’t be disappointed.
