This is the Puerto Rican food truck Detroit has been waiting for

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The alcapurria at El Borinquen Food Truck is nothing like the Puerto Rican street food that I grew up eating.

It’s not that crispy golden cone the server at my favorite cuchifrito spots in the Bronx would pluck from underneath a warm heat lamp and wrap in a paper napkin for me to eat like an ice cream cone. It’s not hearty and gloriously plump, overflowing with meat and soft slivers of red peppers with every bite.

The alcapurria at El Borinquen is darker in color — an almost-black brown so dark, you might mistake it for charred — and rectangular in shape, less reminiscent of the conical Levantine relative that inspired it. A masa of green plantains and earthy root vegetables like yucca, taro or pumpkin is filled with picadillo, a stew of ground beef, sofrito and briny green olives, and deep-fried. Traced back to Middle Eastern settlers in Puerto Rico, it’s much like kibbeh. 

No, El Borinquen’s alcapurria is nothing like my childhood favorite Puerto Rican street food from the streets of NYC.

It is, however, a verbatim interpretation of the glorious alcapurrias served on the island, a version whose pleasure comes from the starchy flavor of the green banana rather than the grease of a deep fryer.

I’ve long lamented that Detroit’s options for Puerto Rican cuisine are lacking. Rincon Tropical in southwest Detroit has been a pillar for more than a decade, with smaller operations run out of home kitchens or as pop-ups over the years.

But the quest for satisfying Puerto Rican is like the adventure of Goldilocks.

Portion sizes are too small, rice is under-salted, the pernil is missing its crunchy-chewy cuero. The place is altogether void of asopao, a tomato-based soup with soft grains of rice at the bottom of the bowl and, outside of my home, I’ve never seen sancocho, the healing chicken soup laden with vegetables you’d turn to on a sick day.

At last, El Borinquen, run by Mary Colon, descended upon the city last summer with just-right offerings, revealing an unconscious bias for this New York native and half-boricua. For years, I’d been seeking the New Yorican comforts that shaped my palate. Instead, El Borinquen came along to deliver something entirely better — the flavors and techniques straight from la isla del encanto. The island of enchantment.

The bacalaítos at the food truck have no resemblance to the cod fish fritters my grandmother would make from Goya’s just-add-water boxed mixture. They’re not the small, crispy rounds that would bubble up in her frying pan like silver dollars on a Sunday morning. But in stature and flavor, they’re just like the fritters I collect from the pinchos stands that line the road to and from Playa Piñones, my favorite beach in Loiza, Puerto Rico.

The Borinquen bacalaítos are massive, about the size of my head. They’re crisp around the edges and doughy in the middle with tiny bones the size of fine hair strands lending a mildly fishy flavor. They’re delicious — not too salty, nor too greasy.

El Borinquen is parked on a once-vacant lot in the residential Claytown neighborhood between a barber shop and a private home. The large, royal blue truck wrapped in images of Puerto Rican food and beverage — a pilon filled with mofongo, a cup of café con leche — sits at the back of the freshly paved lot. The island’s moniker, the island of enchantment, is scribbled in white just beneath the pickup window.

If you don’t spot the vibrant truck at first glance, you won’t miss the giant Puerto Rican flag flapping in the wind at the entrance. A gazebo covers two long picnic tables, and figurines of roosters and stray dogs are placed throughout the outdoor space, creating the feel of Puerto Rico, where livestock and pets roam.

Though the truck is stationary, experiencing El Borinquen is like catching lightning in a bottle.

Colon operates the food truck as a seasonal business. She shut down operations last November and reopened this month, citing winter weather as the reason for the shutdown. Diners like me anticipated her return and were dismayed when the reopening was delayed from March to April. I suppose it would seem disconcerting for a native Puerto Rican to serve guava juice and cheese-filled empanadas with snow coating an unheated patio.

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But Colon’s laissez fair approach to El Borinquen’s business hours carries into the warmer months, too. Google hours might indicate that El Borinquen is open Thursday through Sunday, but on a number of visits, I’ve turned up to no avail.  

When you do catch her, though, you might find Colon making an appearance on the concrete, which duals as her very own dance floor. Hand to her belly, she’ll dance a merengue with her red chef’s hat on, or belt along to the salsa tunes coming through a loud speaker attached to the truck. Waiting for my order of alcapurrias and sorrullitos, little ladyfingers of cornmeal stuffed with melted white cheese that offers the most impressive cheese pull, I envision myself on the patio among guests emphatically swaying our hips and twirling about during a salsa lesson led by Colon or a skilled instructor. I hope someone will give her the idea to transform the space, evoking nights at La Placita, an open-air market in San Juan’s Santurce neighborhood.

Without imposing what El Borinquen could be, it’s enough to celebrate the ways in which the food alone conjures the spirit of Puerto Rico.

Arroz con gandules, or yellow rice teeming with creamy pigeon peas, is perfectly seasoned with the pungent perfume of sofrito and the portion size is enough for two. Maduros, or ripened plantains, are marvelously plump and sweet. Pernil, or roast pork shoulder, is tender and sits in a pool of garlicy-vinegary, fatty goodness, making the last bite the best end note. During one visit, a customer playfully begged Colon to add the cuero. She obliged, plunking rubbery pieces of the pork skin into his Styrofoam container.

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The snacks and beverages at El Borinquen emphasize Colon’s commitment to bringing a taste of Puerto Rico to Detroit. They’re all stamped “hecho en Puerto Rico,” made in Puerto Rico to assert their authenticity. Galletas de jengibre, or ginger cookies come in two varieties. Candies laced with sesame seeds and coconut are just as they are sold in baggies in San Juan. Bottles of pineapple soda are fizzy and citrusy and Malta, the bitter-sweet malted beverage that stained my mother’s tongue when I was a kid, line the food truck counter.

These add-ons are made in Puerto Rico, and adored by a New Yorican.

El Borinquen food truck

4409 Central St., Detroit.

elborinquenfoodtruck.com

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