Master Flautists

Up a hill from the cemetery, just down the street from the famous El Tepeyac burrito stand, the line outside the East L.A. Mexican restaurant Ciro’s stretches just like on any other Sunday afternoon--dozens of people, standing in the drizzle, inhaling the smells of garlic and hot oil, waiting 45 minutes for lunch. As they wait, car after car skids out of control on the rain-slick surface of the street. As long as nobody actually crashes--which they don’t--the waiting crowd giggles a little in anticipation as each new car comes roaring up the hill.

“How many are you?” asks a parka’d hostess as she works her way toward the end of the line. “How many are you, how . . . ooohh, little gordo !” she squeals, as she spots a small child she knows.

She kneels down to pinch his tiny cheeks, then lifts the hood of his jacket and smothers him in kisses. “I haven’t seen you in so long .” She tosses her head as she straightens.

“Remember . . . Tia loves you,” she says.

Ciro’s is something of an East L.A. institution, around as long as anyone can remember, never without a customer, beloved by local teen-agers, families and cops. “Why Go South of the Border If You Can Go to East L.A.?” ask the T-shirts worn by Ciro’s cooks. From the street, Ciro’s faded sign and black-iron security doors look fairly intimidating, but inside the bare dining rooms are actually sort of cheerful, done up in the fake brick-and-wood paneling of a suburban rec room circa 1972, decorated with maps of Mexico and calendars from meat-packing companies, small children running amok.

“Ciro’s” is basically the answer to the perennial L.A. question “Wheredja-go for flautas ?”--as opposed to “wheredja-go for tamales?” or “wheredja-go for chili fries?”--and if you have trouble remembering what to order here, the menu lists “ SABROSAS FLAUTAS “ in type that is approximately the size of the rest of the entrees put together. When in doubt, try the flautas .

A “flautist” is what non-flautists call flutists, but a flauta is a corn tortilla wrapped around a meat filling and fried crisp. (The difference between a flauta and a taquito is pretty much semantic.) Stylistically, flautas can range from the greasy things your college dorm used to serve, probably doused with guacamole-in-a-drum, to the giant, tasteless, alto-flute-size roll-ups served by certain upscale Mexican chains.

Ciro’s flautas are tiny things, piccolo flautas , that come six to an order, tightly rolled and very crisp, sauced with thick, chunky, fresh guacamole and a dollop of tart Mexican cream. The shredded meat inside is usually frizzled to a chewy, almost carne seca consistency, a little salty, with a smack of pure beef flavor that cuts through the strong tastes of corn and hot oil. A lot of restaurant taquitos taste like something that has been flash-frozen in a plant in central Iowa; to go to Ciro’s is almost like visiting a friend’s grandmother who just happens to have terrific homemade flautas on hand. It’s easy to see how these could become an obsession.

As soon as you sit down, a waitress brings over a basket of hot chips and the small bowl of avocado salsa that is the other reason to come to Ciro’s: juicy, moderately chile hot, spiked with bits of fresh tomato and chunks of smooth, ripe avocado. The rice is fresh and quite garlicky; good stuff.

But after the flautas and the salsa and the rice, things can be hit or miss at Ciro’s, just like the cooking at a friend’s grandmother’s house. I have had a plate of carnitas that were the absolute best plate of carnitas I have ever had at a restaurant--brilliantly flavored, about 90% crunch--and I have had carnitas that were flabby and dull. The chicken soup is delicious if inelegant, the broth tasting more of tomato than of chicken. The pork in the chile verde is cooked forever, until it is hard and strong-tasting, as if for an old-fashioned palate.

I like the giant Fridays-only bowls of albondigas soup, abob with Mexican meatballs the size of lemons. I also like the vast, slippery sheets of fried pigskin that have been stewed with chiles in the old-time Los Angeles Mexican manner. But I can’t really see what difference that makes when you’re standing in line for flautas .

Ciro’s

705 N. Evergreen St., East Los Angeles, (213) 269-5104. Open Sunday and Tuesday through Thursday 7 a.m. to 8 p.m., Friday through Saturday 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. Takeout. Cash only. Beer and wine. Dinner for two, food only, $9-$15.