Hole-in-the-wall restaurant review: Warsaw's S'Poco Loco

Rarely does  an eatery absolutely blow Yours Truly to Kingdom Come.

Well, not so rarely, as I am for the most part perpetually starving—which means that sometimes good impressions come cheap.

Yet there is also the odd hole-in-the-wall-of-ultimate perfection, which is no less than S’Poco Loco, a closet-of-a-Mexican hotspot at Francuska 8 in Warsaw’s Saska Kempa district.

No, S’Poco Loco is not a secret. It’s not even a badly kept secret. I’ve seen it out of the corner of my eye many-a-time. In fact, it has hovered in that vague, blurred and intriguing (and near blind) zone of red and ultraviolet in  my peripheral vision for…

Years.

And years.

Yet somehow—prior to April 29, 2024, a day that shall forever be remembered, honored (nay, championed) as Yes, After All These Years Somebody in Poland Finally Managed True-To-Form and Exquisite-Beyond-Belief Tex-Mex Taco Day--I had actually never stopped to try S’Poco Loco’s fare.

I mean… I had almost tried it. When hurrying past to meetings with lowdown or trouble types. When gazing wonderfully out the window of a moving car (in the snow and rain), following a gig in December.

And I had surmised. And wondered. And delved deep in thought.

Could someone—could anyone—actually get it right?

Not that good Mexican does not exist in Poland. There are various restaurants that have in the past earned my well-thought out approval. And I have another on the slate for review in the coming weeks (this one in Gdansk).

But let's not talk about the past. Or the future.

Let's talk about the now.

For this time around there was no thought process, no planning. There was the faint scent of Mexico in the air; the festive assortment of diners arrayed out to the walk  (even the Generation Z's left unable to speak, unable gawk on their phones for a proper Tex-Mex chomp does demand both hands); the seductive open door and impenetrable darkness that did say "hole-in-the-wall."

Nay, my fellow True Taco Deprived. This was not hunger. This was not a review according to plan.

This was instinct.

In fact, I can review nothing, can describe or regale explicit with no details whatsoever.

For suddenly I was simply there. With my two beef tacos, medium hot sauce, come as they serve.

And I paid. And I stared (and thought… hey, this really resembles tacos back in Austin).

And I took one bite and…

HOLY FREAKING MOLY.

This was no less than euphoria. I crammed the entire taco into my mouth as fast as I could chomp. Splinters of perfect shell bloomed shrapnel like to engulf patrons (and my wife) in all directions. Lettuce and hot sauce spilled onto my jeans but no matter…

This was… beyond the perfect taco. This was beyond Tex-Mex Nirvana.

This was freaking instinct.

The second taco disappeared much like the first. I scooped, I crammed. Imagine the Cookie Monster at his most spastic.

And that was it. For I was out of time. For I was otherwise engaged (and needed to do something about my pants).

But alas, the memory. And Dear Lord Above (and no, Mom, this is not using the Good Lord’s name in vain, as when it comes to tacos I am always 100 percent sincere), as far as a food review goes… there was no need.

In fact, I sampled nothing else. Not the mango juice. Not the lemonade. Not the quesadillas or pork variety of taco.

I just jammed two perfect examples of the immaculate into my face, napkins be dammed.

And that is how it should be. And lest we ever forget, may this brief moment of serendipity be remembered in song, nay… in hymn. May this this memory, his veritable explosión of taste, tang and all that is Good and Green (or Salsa) on God’s Miraculous Earth remain forever undefiled. Woe unto me should I ever forget; woe to my soul should I even break down and actually wash these befouled erm… blessed jeans. Woe is me should I deign even to once again brush my teeth.

For there can be other.

Your first Love is Your Last.

No Other Taco (at least in Poland) can compare.