I'd never heard of this place but there was a tiny sign inside saying they'd been around for 50 years. I asked around a few people later and every one of them had eaten here. I'm not sure how it had escaped my attention previously but on my way to Ninfa's I saw the sign. Who can resist a little hole in the wall tamale joint? Not I. I was also in need of a short blast of the AC by this point and unsure how much further down the road Ninfa's was (It's so close I could have probably hit it had I thrown a tamale in the right direction).
I chained up my bike and headed in. After making myself understood in a mixture of English, Spanish and hand signals two serious looking ladies packed up my handrolled pork tamales and I stepped outside. There's a seating area out the back but I didn't want to waste time so I ate one as I unlocked my bike and put the rest in my bag for later. The plan was a good one but I was unprepared for the torrent of grease and deliciousness which dripped down my chin and all over my hands. I can confirm that they are also damn tasty as a late night snack and as breakfast. The pots of barbacoa and al pastor taco filling behind the counter looked exceedingly promising too but in a rare moment of restraint I didn't try any.
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