Eli Eats Salsa’s 3: A Polemic Against Pretense

As a Wesleyan film student, I’ve always had a funny relationship with pretentiousness. I got really into Swedish existentialism at 16, and may or may not have once publicly described myself as an “experimentalist.” Thankfully, at some point I realized snobbery just isn’t very endearing, and started to accept the fact that some things are popular because they are good. However, I do think there’s still a role for discernment, especially in my job as a food journalist. I only have a limited amount of money and time, so why should I spend it eating bad food? The problem is that this quest is predicated on a pre-consumption judgement, and is also the reason why I waited so long to try Salsa’s 3. 

You see, I’m from Los Angeles, a city whose culinary landscape is defined by avocado toast, $30 smoothies, and really really good Mexican food. Because of that fact, and my aforementioned pretentiousness, I unfairly judged all Mexican food outside the Golden State as subpar, and therefore refused to indulge. But one day, while rehearsing for Spike Tape’s rendition of 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, I smelled a sublime consommé. One of my castmates was enjoying birria from Salsa’s 3. That aroma, like the smell of Ratatouille to Anton Ego, told me I had made a mighty mistake. 

As the year concluded I got over my coastal elite complex and visited Salsa’s 3. Of course, because it’s great, I loved it. When brainstorming where to go for this column, Salsa’s 3 came to mind, and so on a balmy Friday I trekked down Pearl Street (great name) towards Washington. I entered the restaurant, where a chalkboard with the specials written on it in glow-in-the-dark marker greeted me. While I considered opting for a carne asada burrito, the shining script bewitched me, and instead I ordered Brandon’s Chipotle Chicken Burrito: a behemoth of chicken, rice, black beans, onions, peppers, corn, jack cheese, and guacamole, all dowsed in an aromatic aioli sauce. 

I also opted for horchata, which I view as a litmus test for any Mexican restaurant. The peer-reviewed formula is simple: too-sweet is bad, medium-sweet is good. This horchata was a member of the second camp. Cinnamon-forward with a vaguely-coconut aftertaste, the horchata functioned as a ginger for the meal, a respite from the meal’s spice. 

Another assessment for any Mexican restaurant: how are the complimentary chips and salsa? Are we just rolling with Pace Chunky Salsa? Or is there something else going on here? Again, Salsa’s 3 passed with flying colors. House-cut corn tortilla chips, well-seasoned in what I believe to be cayenne—the delightful flavors lingered on the tip of the tongue. To the chagrin of all mothers out there, I did fill up on the chips. But I’m glad to report that I was able to find room in my stomach (and heart) for Brandon’s excellent burrito.

This was essentially fajitas in a tortilla. Not bad, right? I took my first bite from the left side of the burrito, and found that the corn and peppers really popped. The green bell peppers were especially seasoned, and melded well with the cheese, almost evoking a chile relleno. Digging in, I uncovered bits of chicken, coated in a “mild” chipotle sauce that totally didn’t make me chug the rest of the horchata in one go. The beans were a good textural element, and the rice allowed for the sauce to dissipate more effectively. I’m not a huge proponent of rice in burritos, but this worked. There were only two qualms I had with Brandon’s work: the guacamole and the tortilla. The guac itself was excellently onion-forward, and everyone knows it’s the year of the onion. However, distribution was lacking, as I was hit by a one bite guac-splosion as I reached the bottom of the burrito. I’m also devastated to report that the tortilla fell apart rather quickly. Still, this was a stellar burrito, a whole that was far greater than the sum of its parts. I’d unquestionably enjoy it in LA. 

As I concluded my meal, I contemplated indulging in some flan, but decided the horchata had done me good in the confectionary department. After a lovely conversation with the owner, Iris Melchor-Lopez (sister of Brandon), I headed out towards Freeman Athletic Center, where I planned on seeing how effective horchata was as pre-workout. As I trotted down the street, stepping on lantern flies left and right, I began to question all the other things I had missed out on due to a loyalty to some bizarre superiority complex. But then I decided there was no lesson to be learned here, and started to listen to 70s ambient music. It sucked. I kept listening. You wouldn’t get it. 

Eli Pearl can be reached at epearl@wesleyan.edu.