The last time I visited El Pueblo Mexican Restaurant in the pueblo of unincorporated Winter Park, my server said, “See you soon!” That prediction turned out to be off by only 20 years, a fact that had little to do with the restaurant and everything to do with my own decades-long negligence. But El Pueblo reemerged into my consciousness after a pit stop at the Chevron on Aloma Avenue one rainy day. I caught notice of the family-run restaurant in the strip plaza next door, the earthy pastel-orange facade in particular, and let the memories of my last meal there flood back.
When I popped inside for lunch, much of the interior looked the same; the hand-painted murals and papel picado banners hanging from the ceiling still lent a charming authenticity to the space. The six booths had received a dramatic upgrade with colorful reliefs painted on the backrests. I sat staring at an image of a woman making corn tortillas on the one facing me. It likely influenced my order of quesabirria tacos ($11), and the trio of crispy, golden-griddled tacos truly hit the spot. The consommé, ruddy and beefy, was a highlight, along with the red chili arbol salsa I used as a secondary dip. Not a highlight: dried-out limes and complimentary tortilla chips that were pre-bought and hardly worthy of dipping into that chile arbol or earthy salsa verde.
The weather outside likely influenced my order of caldo de res ($14), the aromatic beef-shank soup teeming with corn, potatoes, carrots and cabbage. The soup and birria were plenty filling, but I caved to my server’s insistence on ordering her favorite item as well — an invigorating tostada de camarón ($4) heaped with a generous amount of shrimp and avocado. After a final sip of my melon agua fresca ($2.50), “see you soon” were my parting words, and a week later, I returned with a ravenous group of friends.
We all squeezed into a booth, praised the salsas, lamented the chips and began stuffing ourselves, first with crackling sopes stacked high with asada ($4) and barbacoa ($4), heaps of cotija cheese and avocado slices. Layered within were tomatoes, lettuce, cream sauce and refried beans. Then we gorged on gorgeous gorditas ($4) filled with picadillo and more cotija cheese, but it wasn’t until a trio of specials were set before us that we came to understand why El Pueblo has been around for nearly 22 years.
The restaurant could stand on the chori-pollo ($14.75) alone, a flattened chicken breast enveloping griddled ground chorizo topped with melted cheese. If you’re not sharing, fold the chicken and eat the whole thing like a taco. You know, for fun. The accompanying rice was universally loved for its deep flavor but, arguably, the deepest flavor at El Pueblo is found in its mole ($15). When I inquired as to the number of ingredients that went into that complex sauce slathering the chicken drumstick and breast, “Twenty? Maybe 30?” was our server’s reply. It’s rare to describe a steak as “vibrant,” but that’s precisely what the bistek asado ($14) was. The zinger? A tomatillo salsa verde over those meaty strips.
“How have I not been here before?” was a common refrain among my dining pals, and it’s just a testament to the humble eatery started by Francisco and Raquel Mandujano, a husband-and-wife team from Guanajuato, Mexico. Francisco, sadly, passed away five years ago at the age of 61, but his spirit lives on in the recipes, traditions and soul of this restaurant. In an era when authenticity is often marketed more than practiced, El Pueblo feels refreshingly genuine. It’s a gem of a place built not on trends or hype, but on decades of care, consistency and culture. The surprise isn’t that so many people are discovering it for the first time; it’s that it’s managed to remain one of the city’s best-kept secrets for so long.
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