‘What is a California burrito?’ And how to get one in L.A.

I grew up in San Diego and the California burrito was an ever-present, indulgent comfort of my youth. “What is a California burrito?” you might ask, if you haven’t been lucky enough to have one.

To me, a California burrito is: Carne asada. Cheese. Sour cream. And French fries. All wrapped in a big, flaky, tender flour tortilla. Some people say they can include guacamole or pico de gallo, but I think those things are yucky when they get warm. Those are the inflexible borders of the California burrito. No beans, no lettuce, no rice.

California burritos are proof of the power of minimalism. Four humble ingredients come together inside a tortilla to make something transcendent — melty, fluid, fleetingly crunchy, soft, toothsome, rich and filling.

While the exact origin of California burritos is unclear (some credit a taco shop called Lolita’s, while another, Santana’s, claims invention), they entered the San Diego consciousness sometime in the 1980s. By the time I was coming of age in the mid-2000s, they were an integral part of the taqueria menu.

Where I grew up, in Encinitas, I have cherished memories of leaving the beach and walking bare-footed and shirtless to Karina’s (rest in peace), and devouring jumbo-sized California burritos in the summer sun. Each bite was unique — a pocket of cold sour cream here, the cheese only partially melted there, the last crisp cry of the ever-steaming French fries yonder. At the bottom, everything combined into an unrecognizable huddle of creamy, satiety-crushing awesomeness.

Could I find a California burrito in Los Angeles that lived up to these memories?

It seemed the answer was: No. They scarcely appeared on menus, and when they did, they often held (in my mind) noncanonical ingredients.

But I had more mouthal research to do before I made any big claims about what you can and cannot find in the burrito landscape of Los Angeles.

So, I headed straight to Lupe’s Burritos in East L.A., which has a very solid bean and cheese burrito and sells a California burrito.

I was sad to see that their California had not only guacamole and pico de gallo, but also beans. Unwavering in my mission, I customized my burrito to bring it back into the canon.

The burrito was good. Still — for reasons I couldn’t totally put words to — I was left wanting. I asked an employee what cut of beef they used, and they responded, “rib eye.”

That made me think. In a burrito with so few ingredients, each must be considered carefully. I realized I wasn’t sure about what went into my favorite versions back home. What cut of beef? What cheese or blend of cheeses? Sour cream or crema? What order do you put the ingredients in?

I decided I would make my own.

I hopped on the phone with Charlie Knowles, a cook from San Diego whom I’d been connected with, and asked him all of my questions. Luckily, he was the right person to talk to — not only a chef, but just as passionate about California burritos as I was.

He had answers to all of my questions: Most places, he told me, use chuck, simply seasoned with salt and maybe pepper; they use a mixture of cheddar and Monterey Jack cheeses and sour cream; the ingredients are assembled starting with the cheese, then the French fries, the meat and finally the sour cream.

Armed with my newfound knowledge, I toured around East Los Angeles and Boyle Heights gathering ingredients and inspiration. I got four kinds of flour tortillas, five cuts of meat (for research), two types of cheese, two brands of frozen fries, crema and sour cream (and a bunch of tacos) (and some à la carte carnitas and chicharrón) (OK, and one tall boy of Modelo).

Going into my initial recipe test, I was feeling quite confident. I had good ingredients, solid cooking instincts, and a wealth of data points from my youth as to what the perfect specimen should look, feel and taste like.

The first burrito I made at home — after a loose night out at a jam band concert at the Greek — however, turned out all wrong. No cohesion between the ingredients, the tortilla much too small and overcooked. Devastating.

I continued my research, eating more California burritos around town. I even sank so low as to opening them up, dissecting them and inspecting under the hood. What was the secret to those burritos I grew up with?

I texted my friend Ben. “It doesn’t taste good when you overthink it,” he told me.

What does Ben know? Over the next few days I thought even harder about it and became consumed with my recipe testing.

In the Los Angeles Times kitchen, I tested crema against sour cream, the same cuts of meat marinated in citrus and spices against just salt and pepper, various brands of frozen French fries, different orders of assembly and on and on ad nauseum. Not a vegetable in sight (besides French fries).

The burritos just weren’t right. Either the tortilla was overcooked, dry or burnt, or the meat was too tender or too tough, or the cheese melted into a solid mass rather than elegant, gooey strands. I was getting tired, desperate and afraid for my cardiological health.

My final attempt in the test kitchen was close, but the sour cream had curdled. I just wanted it to be over, so I started injecting the burrito with fresh sour cream. I felt ashamed.

I stepped away from the project for a couple days, had some fruit and a couple vegetables, and came back to the burrito determined to succeed. I went undercover to a taqueria and learned that they beat their sour cream with salt to create a more drizzleable texture, and continued testing recipes at home.

I realized I needed the cheese to be melted in some places while still melting in others, that the sour cream had to be cold enough to not curdle, but to get warm enough inside the rolled burrito that it would slowly loosen it over time, allowing it to flow freely between chunks of meat and meld happily with the melting cheese.

In the end, after much sweat and a little blood (damn box graters … ), I finally ended up with a much too fussy recipe that yields a totally delicious California burrito. I even made a video about it.

Is it as good as the California burritos I’ve had in Los Angeles? Perhaps. Is it as good as the ones from my youth? No. Not even close.

Perhaps the real lesson is that no matter how hard you try and how thoroughly you iterate and test, you can never cook a memory.

Happy eating,
Cody

California Burrito

A great California burrito is so much more than the sum of its humble parts: carne asada, cheese, sour cream and French fries. After much testing, I’ve landed on a somewhat fussy recipe that yields a close, at-home approximation of the kind of California burrito you might find at a San Diego taqueria. The only real nonnegotiable in this recipe is that you must have access to good, burrito-sized flour tortillas. If you can’t find them where you live, look harder, and if you still can’t find them, I don’t know what to tell you.
Get the recipe.
Cook time: 45 minutes. Serves 3.