Tamales Tamazula: a Richmond pilgrimage
There’s this cart at 23rd Street and Lincoln Avenue, it just sits there in a parking lot like it’s waiting for you specifically, like it knew you would drive by and be pulled in.
The bright orange and red sign screams “TAMALES TAMAZULA” in letters so bold they’re practically daring you to ignore them. But nobody ignores them. People drive an hour just to pull up here, people drive hours. There’s this woman from Santa Clara in the reviews who says she wakes up early for it, travels that whole distance because nothing else compares. That’s the thing about this place, it’s got that gravity to it. It pulls.
The menu’s simple. Tamales at four bucks. Champurrado. They’re only open Friday through Sunday, 7 a.m. to 11 a.m., which means if you miss that window, you’re waiting another week. That’s the kind of exclusivity that makes people actually show up, actually plan their mornings around it. A little cart in an empty lot, nobody dressed fancy, nobody making a production out of it. Just tamales done right, and the word gets around.
Hola.
We ‘hola’ back, always wondering how long before the switch to English. We are practicing again. Making sure we can keep ourselves fed on our cross-border food adventures.
He doesn’t wait for you to tell him what you want. He already knows you don’t know. He’s done this a thousand times. Tengo Pollo Salsa Verde, Puerco Salsa Roja, Queso con Jalapeño and Tamal de Elote.
We ordered dos Tamales de Puerco.
Eight dollars. Sigh.
Soon we’re riding away with a bag of tamales dangling from our handlebars.
These aren’t delicate. They come out hot, we mean hot, the kind of heat that forces your hand open, makes you drop it on a plate. You have to cool them with salsa and eat them with a fork. That red grease seeping out into the corn husks, pooling at the corners. It’s not a mess, it’s evidence. Evidence that someone cared enough to use real pork, real sauce, real technique.
And here’s the thing nobody tells you beforehand: they fill these things. The meat’s packed in there, well-seasoned, tender, not some token scrap to justify the price tag. You bite in expecting maybe a sliver, and instead you get what they promised. It’s a small surprise that somehow means everything. The masa itself is tasty, infused with the essence of red salsa and porky filling. These are tamales that understand what they’re supposed to be. They weigh in at about 320 grams each and leave you with a warm, content feeling that comes from cooked corn flour and eating fatty meats.
The reviews tell you what you’re walking into. One reviewer’s been ordering them by the dozen for potlucks for years running. Another one says they taste like her grandmother’s from Sinaloa.
The sweet corn tamales on weekends have their own cult. Someone drove back specifically because they only show up on Saturday and Sunday. That’s not just a food business. That’s something that’s become part of people’s routines.
It’s not that everyone’s discovered this place. It’s that everyone who’s supposed to find it, finds it. And they come back. They tell their friends. They drive from Concord, Santa Clara, or wherever, and they don’t complain about the time. They just wake up early and go.
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