Keep an eye peeled for a small red box of a building on the South Side. Turns out it’s the new drive-thru-only manifestation of Ro-Ho Pork & Bread, a San Antonio shop renowned for its Mexican-style sandos.
Turn in off Fair Avenue, then make a quick hook to the right, proceeding around the tiny structure to the menu at the back. Remember your choices, though. At the diminutive order window, there’s nothing to jog your memory.
It’s been years since I’ve been to a drive-thru of my own volition. But I’ve liked Ro-Ho since its first days near the Sanitary Tortilla Factory just west of town. I followed the restaurant to its current iteration at 8617 N. New Braunfels Ave.
The new Fair Avenue spot appears to be the business’ first foray into a drive-thru-only operation. And the first to be painted totally red.
There was a certain DIY aspect to all my orders — for various reasons that will become apparent to the patient. We can start with the double-wrapped and carnitas-stuffed Taco Chilango. The base model is just two corn tortillas and pulled pork.
Fully accessorized, it becomes almost luxurious. The most important upgrade comes in the form of crushed chicharrones that are, first and foremost, the perfect crunchy counterpoint to the pliant pork. Adding them yourself once you get home ensures they won’t become soggy in transit. Also don’t be shy about also adding the included avocado crema and the chopped onion and cilantro. It’s all good.
Ro-Ho’s Taco al Pastor is said to be made from “rotisserie marinated pork,” and since it’s impossible to see inside the red box, I had to take the restaurant at its word. The color of the pork — red with achiote and dried chiles — is right, and there are lots of crisp edges.
The traditional pastor spins on a device called a trompo crowned with pineapple, which in my to-go pack appeared to be unroasted. Yet the fruit’s brightness played well against the pork. Diced red onion is added to the accessory mix. Again, just add it all, followed by a squeeze of lime.
Ro-Ho’s Gringa Taco uses the same meat and extras, adds Jack cheese, and employs flour tortillas in lieu of corn.
While takeout tacos are the ultimate meal-on-the-run, Ro-Ho’s signature Torta Ahogada — or “drowned” sandwich — requires a little more engineering. Not to mention a some-assembly-required state of mind.
Beyond that, you have to make a crucial decision at the order window: pork butt carnitas, pork stomach (buche), cuerito (pork skin) or a mixture of the above. There’s also a vegetarian version. I chose a mix of buche and cuerito.
When you get home, there’s another decision to be made. Your choice of filling will have been stuffed into a birote, a close cousin of the Mexican bolillo roll, that’s been sliced lengthwise, then cut in half across its equator. In street food fashion, a mild tomato-based sauce comes in a small plastic bag, its top knotted shut. This is the medium in which to “drown” the torta.
I suppose you could just open the bag and pour the thin sauce over the sandwich while it’s still prone in the polystyrene container. Turning as required, you could wait for the bread to get good and soaked — and employ a knife and fork if necessary.
But this just seems wrong.
Another option is to find a shallow bowl, heat the sauce, stand the halved tortas upright as a pair of tawny icebergs and pour the goodness all around. This way, using your fingers, you can keep dunking as you bite your way toward the pointed end. Less mess. More ceremony.
I like to enhance the sauce with the two red salsas, killers in their own right, that the restaurant provides in tiny plastic cups.
But whatever the manner of consumption, it’s a beautiful sandwich.
The restaurant’s Ahogada hails from Guadalajara, but the Chilakillers may come mostly from the creative mind of chef-owner Jorge Rojas. Whatever the origin, here’s what you get: a mountain of toasty tortilla chips slathered with bean puree, generous portions of your choice of meat — I chose carnitas — a more modest amount of sour cream, feta, pickled onion and another tied bag of the lightly spicy tomato sauce. Once again, a little salsa enhancement may be a good idea.
Now pour the sauce over the tumbled pile — basically fancy nachos — and have at it. It’s less messy than you might imagine.
There’s one dessert on the Ro-Ho menu. It’s called Jericalla. Also a Jalisco native, it’s basically a lighter flan, cooked in a water bath and broiled a bit to achieve a browned crust. I ate this one straight out of its crinkled aluminum cup. No ceremony there, but it made a satisfying end to an admittedly excessive meal.
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