In Mexico's Tiniest State, A Quest for the Ultimate Taco

Years ago, a midmorning meal at a roadside eatery in central Mexico sparked a lifelong pursuit. At that time, I was living with family friends in Querétaro, and one Sunday morning, they whisked me away into the hills. We eventually arrived at a modest roadside spot marked only by a billboard featuring a lamb, where two women skillfully shaped blue corn tortillas on low stools outside the entrance.

Those tortillas enveloped my first experience of Hidalgo-style barbacoa: lamb slow-cooked overnight in a pit, wrapped in agave leaves, steaming in its own juices over coals from a wood fire. The enticing aroma of fresh masa on the comal etched itself in my memory; the rich, sticky meat paired with crunchy salt crystals created a lasting impression. In a place where I was grappling with the language and my identity, that one flavor made me feel completely at home.

Since then, I've sampled barbacoa throughout Mexico, often embarking on trips with little more than a flimsy excuse to indulge in more barbacoa.

Barbacoa has roots in the precolonial culinary practices of the Taíno, an indigenous Caribbean people. As the method of slow-roasting meat spread across Mexico, it evolved to suit local ingredients. In the northern regions, beef—often from the head—is the preferred choice, while other areas feature chicken, goat, or rabbit. Sometimes avocado or banana leaves replace agave leaves. Yet, for me, authentic barbacoa is the lamb dish cherished in Hidalgo and its neighboring states.

Last summer, I embarked on a journey from my Seattle home to the hills of Hidalgo, eager to sample the region's finest barbacoa, delve into its origins, and hopefully discover the ultimate version. Together with fellow food writer Lydia, we mapped out a three-day, 300-mile road trip with eight barbacoa stops, beginning at a sprawling barbacoa paradise known as El Pica, where dozens of lambs roast in 11 pit ovens, or hoyos, catering to over 1,500 visitors each weekend who flock to the stalls for drinks, sides, and desserts.

We made our way into the Sierra de Pachuca, ascending through the foothills and past historic mining towns to the magical village of Huasca de Ocampo, a charming mountain locale. Following tips and our appetites, we took the advice of the front desk clerk at our hotel, Bella Vista, and visited a parking lot vendor named Barbacoa Los Pirris, where the consomé revitalized us. Next, we stopped at Barbacoa Los Garcías simply for its intriguing appearance; the deep flavors of the dark red salsa compensated for the meat's milder taste. We took a moment to admire breathtaking waterfalls cascading over unique basaltic prisms—100-foot-tall, six-sided columns lining a canyon. After exploring the 18th-century Hacienda de Santa María Regla, a colonial estate of a wealthy Spanish count and silver miner, we continued our quest, sampling countless barbacoa variations—some gamey, some dry, most decent, yet none lived up to my teenage memories. With only one day remaining, I felt as parched as the sun-scorched landscape around us.

While enjoying mango pulque (a traditional fermented agave drink often served with barbacoa) and tacos filled with flavorful barbacoa (though marred by bone shards) at El Carnerito (a spot praised by the Mexican president), my fellow food lover suggested we abandon our search in Hidalgo and journey to Tlaxcala, Mexico’s smallest state, just under two hours away. We made two final stops in Hidalgo, clinging to the hope of finding my ideal barbacoa stand by the roadside.

To echo Buckwheat from Little Rascals, I had been searching for lamb in all the wrong spots. Tlaxcala, which translates to “the place of the tortillas,” turned out to be the hidden gem off the tourist taco trail where my barbacoa dreams resided. The state produces a significant portion of the country’s corn, focusing particularly on heirloom varieties, as well as agave for both pulque and the leaves used to cook the lamb.

We strolled through the central plaza, where the vibrant orange, pink, and green facades of the municipal buildings and museum overlooked the lush square, anchored by a gazebo. From there, we made our way to Cuatro Volcanes Distillery. Siblings Ernesto, Celeste, and Getzany Vargas Mendoza transformed their mother’s garage into a distillery in 2018, crafting spirits from Tlaxcala’s heirloom corn and other local ingredients. We entered next to the stills and fermentation tanks in the ground floor's garage-like atmosphere, while the dining loft, adorned with leather couches, houseplants, and clay statues of Xoloitzcuintli, the Mexican hairless dog, resembled a trendy Brooklyn bar—except for the menu.

I ordered a Cacaxtla, a whiskey concoction infused with passionfruit, aquafaba, and a hint of cinnamon. We also tried two flavored spirits; one had the exact taste of café de olla, the classic Mexican spiced coffee, and the other reminded us of lemon pie. Ernesto joined us and, upon hearing about our unfulfilled barbacoa hunt, recommended one last stop before we returned to Mexico City the following day: Rancho Finas Hierbas. He advised us to arrive by 8:30 a.m. Lydia, who had nearly vowed never to see barbacoa again (or wake up before 10 a.m.), tensed up, but being a good friend, she was committed to my quest.

Upon reaching Tlaxcala, I felt like a defeated woman. But then, as if by magic, the clouds cleared, a rainbow appeared, and angels sang when we arrived at Rancho Finas Hierbas the next morning. In reality, I was cursing Google Maps for leading me through a grassy field to a dead-end. After a U-turn near some lonely cows, I finally found my way back toward a bullfighting arena, where the barbacoa restaurant was located.

We entered through an arched wooden door beneath the stands and into the restaurant. The server informed us that they wouldn’t open the pit until nine, but we were welcome to sit and enjoy coffee. We ordered fresh-squeezed orange juice served in Mason jars with striped straws, a pastry, and a tlacoyo to hold us over, then followed the crowd out the back door right at nine.

Guillermo Veloz, a former toreador now dedicated to barbacoa, is the chef behind the meat here. His wife and children craft the sauces and sides. Every Sunday morning, for a few short hours, they open their doors to diners.

Ruggedly attractive and clad in a denim shirt and leather apron, Veloz was busy shoveling dirt from one of two pits, which contained several lambs slow-roasting overnight. Families gathered around the round brick pit, eager for photos as the metal lid was removed, revealing the agave-wrapped meat inside.

He peeled back the agave leaves and pulled out a piece of meat, dropping it onto the cutting board. Slicing generous portions, he placed them into freshly made tortillas stacked beside him and distributed them to the eager crowd, a snack to satisfy the hungry visitors.

We enjoyed bowls of consomé, simmered beneath the lamb to catch all the savory drippings in a richly flavored broth. Hearing a woman request salsa de chinicuil, we joined in, asking for the sauce made with worms from the maguey plant—the same plant that provides the leaves wrapping our barbacoa and ferments into the pulque we were sipping. It was served on a tortilla, with tiny red squiggles in a spicy green sauce, delivering a mezcal-like flavor that complemented the rich, juicy lamb ribs and tender shoulder tacos we ordered.

Full and curious, we stepped outside. Veloz took a moment from his preparations to slice us pieces of pancita—a dish made from stomach stuffed with various organ meats. He then offered to give us a tour. While he learned the crafts of bullfighting and barbacoa from his father, he opened this restaurant just four years ago. During the week, he tends to a different bullring in Apizaco, his hometown, located 20 minutes away. On weekends, he shares a passion with me: the pursuit of the finest Hidalgo-style barbacoa. Yet, while I seek to indulge, he aims to create.

Barbacoa starts with lamb, and Veloz carefully crossbreeds Charollais and Dorper sheep to achieve the perfect balance of reduced fat and enhanced flavor. In the barn, he showed us the double-floor design, featuring a slotted upper layer that allows manure to fall through, helping to prevent bacterial contamination. He refrains from using certain medications to avoid harming the land and the mushrooms that flourish here. “I’m thinking about the future,” he explained. He selects only male lambs at six months old, as they provide consistent yield and meat texture.

This was the barbacoa I had been seeking, an ethereal Sunday morning taste wrapped in a tortilla pressed just moments before, still carrying the sweet aroma of fresh corn. Yet, it offered something more. “What we provide here is the experience of opening the oven. You can inhale the blend of mud, firewood, and agave leaves. You won’t find this anywhere else,” Veloz remarked. I couldn’t agree more: it wasn’t merely a taste of Hidalgo, the region I intended to explore; it was distinctly Tlaxcala.

Essential Information

Tlaxcala is a quaint town located just a 90-minute drive from Mexico City’s Benito Juárez International Airport. Buses link both Mexico City and nearby Puebla to Tlaxcala, though having a car is advantageous for reaching the two recommended restaurants: Barbacoa Veloz at Rancho Finas Hierbas and the Cuatros Volcanes Distillery Gastrobar. The beautiful and centrally located Hotel San Francisco Tlaxcala preserves the historic charm of its century-old building, featuring elements like a stained-glass roof in the entryway, while recent renovations added modern comforts, including a large indoor pool in the courtyard.