In Southern California, the best burritos I ever had weren't in some fancy Mex restaurant with a fountain and serving watered down marguerites in those giant glasses, where the guy doing the seating is a token Mexican with a mustache and manicure and every hair perfectly in place, but instead in a tiny whitewashed joint in the part of town where it is wise to check out the parking lot before walking to your car. Only real Mexicans can make that good tripe soup they call menudo.