Every time I return to this place, I get lost and arrive circuitously, so it feels very far away. I always start by cruising down East Marginal Way, and accidentally take a highly arched bridge over the Duwamish, and descend into a tiny neighborhood that, a sign announces, is called South Park.
Hemmed in by industry, this small neighborhood is physically isolated from the rest of the city, which may account for why it feels so distant and foreign. South Park’s streets are wide and deceptively quiet (low-flying planes from Sea-Tac roar overhead every 10 minutes). Deciduous trees lean toward each other, currently an autumn canopy of orange and scarlet and gold along the sluggish river. Old homes and gorgeous trees stand in stark contrast to the massive, windowless white industrial buildings and eight-lane-wide streets across the Duwamish.
Along South Park’s main drag, there are three excellent taquerias, two Mexican restaurants, a nice tienda stuffed with imaginative piñatas, and one of the toughest taverns this side of Spokane (“No Crybabies,” says the sign on its door). At the retail end of this thoroughfare sits Juan Colorado. As I dined my way down 14th, I found Juan Colorado’s food not only delicious, but remarkable. The former proprietor, a short-haired, sparkly-eyed chef with dangly hoop earrings, infused the menu with her characteristic Michoacan regional cooking. A year or so ago, she sold the business to Luis and Alma Jimenez, and although Juan Colorado’s cooks now hail from Jalisco, the signature Enchiladas Juan Colorado ($9.50) retain their distinctive and exemplary Michoacan approach: stacked corn tortillas, layered with lightly fried, garlicky potato rounds, crumbled cojita, avocado, and a dense, slightly sweet peppery sauce, topped with carne asada. Another favorite of mine is the Chile Rellenos Mexicanos ($7.50), a queso fresco-stuffed poblano, lightly battered, and swimming in a rich, fiery broth. The corn tortillas that come with it vary wildly in their quality, but are worth the risk–if you get them fresh and hand-made, they’re good enough to eat alone, piping hot or bolstered with some superb house guacamole. Finally, make room for a Taquito al Pastor ($1.75), a mini soft taco with chunks of marinated pork seasoned and grilled to juicy perfection, chopped up with sweet onions and cilantro. Oh, and of course, the White Fish Ceviche Tostada ($3.25), when available, stands for all that is simple and good about the raw-fish triumvirate of jalapeño, onion, and lime juice.
Don’t forget the margaritas, either. Luis mixes up his own secret margarita mix of fresh juices and plenty of tequila. Over in Juan Colorado’s ample smoking and boozing section, the jukebox thumps out an array of new and traditional tunes, musical wails punctured by bleating accordions. (Overheard: A man recounts his woes to his comrades de Budweiser. “I pay her rent, I pay her car payment, I pay for her kids to go to Catholic school….”) But the best time of day to be here is during the random appearance of South Park’s handsome strolling mariachi men. Three gentlemen dressed in tight black outfits, complete with fancy cowboy boots and black sombreros, suddenly materialize, moving from table to table, singing requests in heartbreaking three-throated harmony.
The high-pitched hum and grating moans of car tires passing over South Park’s drawbridge sound like a ghost song over the eerily still Duwamish. The river is the color of a slow winter. With my belly warm and full of Juan Colorado’s cooking, my head buzzing from an afternoon margarita and the weird specter of autumn afternoon sun, I can hear local poet and Duwamish enthusiast Richard Hugo in my head.
In bourbon sleep, old men hummed salmon
home to mountains and the river jammed
with blackmouth, boiled in moonlight while the mills boomed honest sparks.
Juan Colorado
8709 14th Ave S (at East Marginal Way, in South Park), 764-9379. Open daily 11 am-10 pm.