I remember my first visit to Hugo'sCocina well, because it was weeks in the making. I had seen a listof Prescott's best restaurants, and Hugo's was tops in the Mexicancategory. In my travels, I saw an unassuming edifice with a sandwichsign in front that proclaimed it to be a Mexican restaurant, and myinstincts told me it would be authentic and good. A second glancetold me it was Hugo's, so I knew I was onto something.

The parking area was a dirt lot, withcars facing every direction. I made my own parking arrangement nearthe street, where I wouldn't block anybody in. A dilapidated shackwith some see-through ventilation provided fair-weather cover formulti-colored picnic tables, and the rear door entered into thegalley-sized kitchen. I excused myself from bumping into Manny, thecook, and found my way to the ordering counter.

When I explained that I wanted tosample what Hugo's was all about while on a budget, the man suggested that I try threedifferent types of tacos, especially the pescadilla, or fish taco.He told me if I didn't like it, he would make me something different.After I paid a paltry fee under $6, he directed me to the salsa bar,where three large crocks with different salsa and basket-loads ofchips awaited. I filled a souffle cup with the green salsa verde,but my eye was drawn to a spicier sauce in a crock that was almostempty. The man told me to take as much as I wanted, and that all thesalsas were made fresh daily. So I tried all three, instantlyfalling in love with the dark red one that everyone else must like,too.

Several of Prescott's “characters”camped out against one wall, so I scuttled over to the other side andtook a seat. The painted picnic tables looked like they had been onthe wrong side of a knife-fight, and the blue-painted walls had agedto a point where they begged for a new coat. I noticed a sign abovethe trash bin that read: PLEASE do not throw away our plastic trays.Then Eric, the counterman and owner of Hugo's, delivered my iced teaand three tacos, neatly laid out on one of the infamous paper-lined,theft-worthy plastic trays. “I'm sure you're gonna like this, “he said with confidence.

I savored every bite of the chicken andbeef tacos before venturing into the unknown territory of thepescadilla. The spices were indeed authentic, and with each bite, Iwanted more. The pescadilla was filled with a flaky, brown-coloredfish filling, and like the others, fresh cilantro leaves. It easilyclassifies as a delicacy.

I asked the owner about his worn-outPhiladelphia Eagles cap, and he said that was where he was from, inPennsylvania. I expressed surprise, and he talked about his love ofauthentic Mexican food, and that once he learned a few secrets, thathe opened up Hugo's. He said he tried to open one in Philly, butcould not get fresh cilantro and other spices on a daily basis, andthe cost of running a coast-to-coast operation was frightful.Despite its appearance, or perhaps because of it, Hugo's Cocina inPrescott, Ariz., was my most memorable restaurant stop as I crossedthe country in January.