I started writing about Vegas food and restaurants right around the dawn of the new millennium. It was part of my job as a community reporter to profile new businesses in my area, which at the time was the far western portion of the valley, primarily the gargantuan master planned community of Summerlin. There were many new businesses to profile in those days, and restaurants quickly became my favorite feature. The research required speaking with owners and chefs, discussing their concepts, and trying to see their vision for their businesses. It was vastly interesting, allowing me a quick glimpse beyond the counter and the kitchen and into these microcosms of the off-Strip food and beverage industry. Despite my complete lack of business training, many times I wanted to discourage these entrepreneurs, often families leveraging their collective futures in pursuit of this crazy dream because somebody told them their ribs and chicken are bomb at some backyard barbecue. I wanted to tell them it wouldn’t work, tell them no one would want to eat their food or peruse their massive, overzealous menus. But I didn’t. Frequently I was proven right and the place didn’t last six months, but such is the case in the restaurant industry. It’s a tough gig, and I always rooted for success and survival even though it didn’t happen most of the time. But my puffy, friendly feature stories provided a bit of a boost in their early days and weeks, and sometimes I think a small profile in a weekly newspaper direct mailed to just about everybody in Vegas may have made the difference for some of these restaurants, may have somehow pumped them through that first impossible year. Maybe not.
My first real restaurant review was published in January 2005 in the Las Vegas Mercury, a now defunct altweekly from the same media company where I worked as a reporter. I got to offer my opinions on the Canter’s Deli that had opened in Treasure Island on the Strip, a reasonable facsimile of the iconic L.A. eatery. When I first read it in print, two things became clear: first, it was fitting that my debut as a food writer involved a delicatessen, since my deep love for such establishments trails back to my parents creating a small chain of sandwich shops (The Giant Grinder) in my hometown of Eugene, Oregon, in the early ‘70s; and second, I knew I wanted to do more of this. I knew I would be writing about food now.
But not like everyone else. My interest in this subject is very specific. Vegas is possibly the greatest restaurant city on the planet, but it is far from a great food city. Because of its unnatural origins and design, the fact that 100 years later it is still an oasis of decadence and fun in the middle of an empty, harsh desert, Vegas also is the most unique restaurant city of all. It really is not even a city. It’s a fabrication. It’s one big flashing sign that reads: Come. And so everything you know about this place is somehow part of this unending invitation, and that is why there are so many world-class chefs and restaurateurs with their own stake in Vegas. At some point, if you’re in this business, you’re gonna have to be here. Vegas is too young and too fake to be a classic American city, but in many ways – always changing, always new, bigger, better, more, too much – it is the most American of cities. And as a dining destination, let’s call it a showcase. The best of everything will be distributed from this location, a true one-stop for all your culinary needs. And if this was all you knew, your perspective would be wildly and permanently skewed, like mine. So my interest is in Las Vegas restaurants only. I don’t travel much, but when I do, I don’t eat at that city’s great restaurants in order to compare them to mine. I don’t care. I don’t want a global frame of reference. For my pursuits, there is only Vegas. Of course, this place attracts much more than French culinary legends, TV celebrities, corporate troopers and up-and-coming kitchen stars ready for a big payday. There is life off the Strip. Everyone who has come to Vegas to snatch their own piece of it has settled somewhere away from the neon, and we all gotta eat. There are lots of regular-old-neighborhood joints that do well, some deserving and some capitalizing on the terrible taste of our large middle class. But as far as I can tell, everyone eats at Roberto’s.
There are almost 50 Roberto’s Taco Shops in the valley. That's roughly one for every 40,000 people. Now, I have my own personal Roberto’s Taco Shop and I don’t share it with that many people. In fact, it’s never crowded when I walk in. The cheap, pink booths usually are empty. There are never more than three guys in the kitchen, blasting Ranchera music and not really paying attention to huge crocks on the stove simmering chicken parts. And that’s the way I like it.
The story behind the Roberto’s dynasty is typical, akin to the tale behind so many enchiladas-beans-and-rice Mexican-American restaurants all over California and the American Southwest. It started in 1964 when Roberto and Dolores Robledo started making and selling tortillas in San Ysidro, a community on the southern tip of San Diego. Things tasted good, people wanted more, and their first taco shop soon opened. I’ve been told the first Roberto’s is the red-and-yellow shack right on Mission Beach, but I kinda doubt it. But I have been to that Roberto’s, and it is good. Today the family-operated company runs these small, casual restaurants in California, Nevada and Florida. You can’t go far in Vegas without seeing Roberto’s, and they are in all kinds of locations: in suburban strip malls, next to video poker-laden neighborhood watering holes, inside gas stations or food courts. Roberto is everywhere. How did this happen? His tacos are outstanding, and cheap.
They are so simple, and probably not the most authentic, but to me: joyous. Corn tortilla, fried into explosive crunchiness, packed with shredded beef, stupid iceberg lettuce and plain old yellow cheddar cheese. That’s it. A couple of bucks for purity. I’m going to hit them up, of course, with some of the red chile salsa, pureed smooth and drizzly, with just enough throat heat to do some damage. I’m going to get some of that stuff in the little plastic cup, and I might pour it down the taco so the hot sauce can mingle with the lettuce and cheese, or I might dip the taco’s meat-filled edge into the hot sauce. For so long, if I could actually choose what I was going to eat at any given lunchtime, if there were no obligations to fulfill or maybe it was a Saturday and I had nothing to do, if I actually asked myself What sounds really good right now?, the answer always was a No. 4 plate. That’s two beef tacos, rice and beans. I have eaten a lot of food, I have tried many things, I have taken many bites wealthy and poor, and I still don’t know if there’s a single one more satisfying than this, the combination of that skull-shaking corn crunch and the tender, savory, meaty mouthful you get from a simple, perfect taco. That’s just me. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe the fancy amuse bouche at Robuchon is better. I like Roberto’s.
There is more to it than that. Roberto’s is just a small, possibly dirty, not necessarily English-friendly joint if it’s not familiar to you. Return visits with dad are the genesis of all this affection. Like my loyalty to the taco, he used to stick with a few things: taquitos smeared with zingy guacamole and absolutely covered with shredded cheese, a big plate of fresh fried chips with the same toppings, or maybe a couple of saucy tamales, unwrapped from husks and enclosed in the old school styrofoam tray for easy transport. He sent me on more than one late-night mission for tamales, on weekends when I was home from college and he was up too late. It was the worst kept secret in the house. Deep fried goodies, stewed meats and cartoon-sunshine orange enchilada sauce can produce some strong smells, and so he got caught in the act frequently. Besides mangling the Spanish language and likely offending everybody in the kitchen with his goofball gringo routine, the most ridiculous Roberto’s behavior revolved around refried beans. Sometimes, not every time but sometimes, your Roberto’s beans will have a grayish tint to them, scarier than that typical dull brown color. It’s called lard. My dad spent a few years managing an El Torito restaurant in Oregon, where he learned to cook decent Mexican food, and he always fell back on that experience when trying to convince anyone that the best refrieds were full of lard. It’s certainly up for debate. But he loved him some Roberto’s beans, and he proved it every time he’d cook up a Mexican feast for the family. He’d snag a Tupperware container – or in one memorable, embarrassing, ghetto-ass episode, an empty plastic margarine drum – and head up to Roberto’s, and have the guys fill it up with refried beans. I theorize that every time he went on these missions himself, instead of sending one of his five children to do the dirty work, he probably crunched up a three-pack of taquitos in the car on the way home.
I’ve gone through stages … when I shared an apartment on West Desert Inn Road, I frequented the store right next to the Durango Lodge, and I got into eating chicken and rice burritos, monstrous and packed with pickled vegetables, cheese and those lardy beans. There can be slight menu variation from shop to shop, but mostly you’re dealing with tacos (beef, chicken, carne asada, carnitas, adobada or fish), tostadas, burritos (machaca, chorizo, breakfast, or variations of the taco ingredients), enchiladas, tortas, chimichangas, and perhaps something ridiculous like carne asada fries, subbing crinkle cut spuds for chips in a nacho mountain. The breakfast burritos are pretty good, too, if you’re into that sort of thing. The cooks will throw anything lying around into an extra large flour tortilla with scrambled eggs and cheese and feed it to you. And of course, Saturdays and Sundays are for menudo. Of the everyone who eats at Roberto’s, most know that a stomachache may follow. Of the weird newspaper jobs I’ve had, keeping tabs on the Health District’s regular restaurant report is one of the more entertaining, and I should be ashamed to admit that one day, after lunching at Roberto’s on Rancho Drive near Charleston Boulevard (I had a No. 4) I picked up that naughty list and quickly noted the very same restaurant had just been demoted to a C grade. But I’m not ashamed, and I won’t tell you the exact infractions that caused the downgrade. I am never ashamed of Roberto’s.
I’ve moved all around the west side of Vegas and claimed new locations as my own. But now I am back home, in Summerlin, a few minutes from my parents’ former house from which those tamale missions began. It feels good to go back to my first Roberto’s Taco Shop, and it looks exactly the same, resting up against a dry cleaner and a PT’s Pub. I don’t eat this food anywhere near as much as I used to, because I have discovered so many other great things to eat. I’ve even found other sensational tacos that, if judged by a rational mind, would be found superior: those at Los Tacos on East Charleston, which are soft and stuffed with whole pinto beans and guacamole in addition to the usual suspects; the chicken mole tacos at the super tiny, super authentic Mexico City-style Los Antojos on East Sahara Avenue; and the delectable smoked brisket taquitos at Border Grill on the Strip. But I am not a reasonable man. I am an emotional eater, just like dad, full of nostalgia and questionable judgment. And so Roberto’s it is. I will defend this taco.
