Our story
A kitchen thatcame with us
Taco Madre started the way most family kitchens do: with recipes nobody ever wrote down. They came north from Jalisco in somebody’s head, got cooked on Sundays for whoever turned up, and ended up on a comal in Oakwood, Georgia.
Very little of that has changed. The marinade for the al pastor is still made the long way. The birria is still left alone for hours until it gives in. The tortillas still go on the heat after you have ordered, not before, which is why they arrive at the table soft enough to fold.
What did change is the counter. It sits between our kitchen and a room full of people from around here: families after church, crews on a lunch break, everyone who came in for one taco and ordered three. That is the whole business, and it is enough.
