Five days.
You have five days to dodge the rain, catch up on Mad Men, check out that new Tom Hardy driving flick, ponder a solution to the Ukrainian crisis and maybe eat some quiche.
But then, it’s time to get serious.
About tacos. These tacos.
Bienvenidos a Cafe El Presidente, a warehouse-size abode of edible Mexican things from the Tacombi folks, soon to be the biggest thing in Flatiron. It opens Monday.
You’ll enter to the overpowering smell of fresh tortillas. You’ll grab one of the democratically arranged tables at the center, and you’ll partake in one or all of the following:
Breakfast
Their classic juice stand is on your left as you enter. It’s got the same life-nectars they’ve got downtown. But to your right is something new—glass cases of sweet-tomato-jam empanadas and what might be the city’s most killer cornbread, taking the form of a roasted-poblano-filled muffin.
Tacos
Specifically, al pastor tacos. Even more specifically, al pastor tacos made in a wide-open kitchen with an al pastor spit. If we got more specific, we’d have to kill you. (Seriously, don’t make us kill you.)
Post-Work Imbibing
The day is done. Things: accomplished. Colleagues: restless. Mezcal-and-bitters-spiked Mexican Cokes: right here waiting for you.
Just as it was foretold by the prophet Richard Marx.
You have five days to dodge the rain, catch up on Mad Men, check out that new Tom Hardy driving flick, ponder a solution to the Ukrainian crisis and maybe eat some quiche.
But then, it’s time to get serious.
About tacos. These tacos.
Bienvenidos a Cafe El Presidente, a warehouse-size abode of edible Mexican things from the Tacombi folks, soon to be the biggest thing in Flatiron. It opens Monday.
You’ll enter to the overpowering smell of fresh tortillas. You’ll grab one of the democratically arranged tables at the center, and you’ll partake in one or all of the following:
Breakfast
Their classic juice stand is on your left as you enter. It’s got the same life-nectars they’ve got downtown. But to your right is something new—glass cases of sweet-tomato-jam empanadas and what might be the city’s most killer cornbread, taking the form of a roasted-poblano-filled muffin.
Tacos
Specifically, al pastor tacos. Even more specifically, al pastor tacos made in a wide-open kitchen with an al pastor spit. If we got more specific, we’d have to kill you. (Seriously, don’t make us kill you.)
Post-Work Imbibing
The day is done. Things: accomplished. Colleagues: restless. Mezcal-and-bitters-spiked Mexican Cokes: right here waiting for you.
Just as it was foretold by the prophet Richard Marx.
