In Search of Lost Tortas

GONZO

Looking for an Endangered Species at Ojos Locos

By Ancient Problemz · July 22, 2026 · 9 min read

Ever since Bad Bunny turned the Super Bowl into a bodega, I’ve sought to document different ethnic subcultures before they get subsumed by the gray goo of globohomo. Every group has its own idiosyncratic charm that must be documented if they are to be preserved. Where legacy media tells us we’re all the same, it’s up to scrappy startups like MAMA to remind people we aren’t. Flanked by predatory pharmaceutical companies, hedge funds and venture capitalists, I set out in the American Southwest to immerse myself in the ways of the torta before they disappear completely from this earth.

Just as regions have their own unique cuisines resulting from the commercial, linguistic, and cultural exchanges that occur between groups, so do they mint their own distinct peoples who deserve to be studied and rated on their merits. Robert Mariani coined the term “diner goth” to describe a certain white group with its own folkways and phenotypes, but many groups already have longstanding names and traditions. For example, it’s rumored that chonga, a Miami term dating back to the 90s, is a portmanteau combining Cuban women who look like cholas but play congas. Yinzers are a Pittsburgh subspecies of white who tried to invent an American vosotros from first principles. But only one word comes to mind when reviewing ethnic groups like they were street food and that’s torta.

Named after the oversized, overstuffed sandwiches served from Mexico through the American Southwest, torta affectionately describes the oversized, overstuffed Mexican and Mexican-American women who love hot chips, Nissan Altimas, and XL drive-thru beverages.

While the Mestizo origins of these charismatic megafauna are well known, innovations in scrubs, airfare pricing and cupholder sizes reflect the nurture of Nabisco colliding with the nature of pre-Colombian metabolisms to develop such stunning sirens who could only exist in the modern corn-subsidized economy we make them inhabit. Like the T-Rex in Jurassic Park, she was never meant for captivity, yet she appears even wilder and more impressive because of it. Take the abundance of calories we create through industrial farming, pair it with the energy demands of the average medical biller / Uber Eats driver, and combine it with the genes of people who played soccer with human skulls, and you get an army of cute, round Mexican women who amble like heavy-breathing lawn gnomes with dummy thicc thighs.

To better document the ways of the torta, I set up shop in Houston, a sprawling, multiracial, English and Spanish speaking metropolis loaded with cheap labor and little oversight. An international port city dominated by Indian, Jewish, Chinese, and Middle Eastern elites constantly getting into car accidents with uninsured Latinos. It lays claim to Johnny Dang, the most famous grill-maker in the world, and Chopped and Screwed, the slowest, most retarded rap genre in history. And, famously, tortas: the fluffiest, sweetest smelling pre-diabetics in the Western Hemisphere. El Salvador has its Edgars, New York has its Yosis. But Houston is the primary preserve of the ever-majestic torta.

I enlisted the help of a friend and private investigator visiting from Miami, who wanted to see all the town has to offer. We began and ended at Ojos Locos, which I first became acquainted with four years ago when a Russian told me it was “like Hooters but for ass.” She warned: “It’s not good.”

Unsure whether her intel could be trusted, I went with a few friends to investigate. We were greeted by a short Aztec woman with a wide ass and no waist, sauntering over with saddle bags hanging out of her coochie cutters, the look of pure credit card debt on her face. While the chain boasts more than 30 locations, precluding it from the attention of someone like Anthony Bourdain, we aren’t that shallow at MAMA. We’re here to review the humans, not the food.

The Ojos Locos in the affluent Memorial neighborhood was almost full by 4:00 pm on a Thursday. The girls ranged from acceptable to hot, with most of them firmly inside the lower threshold of respectability. While I’m not sure if it was the location or my time off from the franchise, the girls were far thinner and less clothed than I remembered. Cellulite was a rare sight, with none of the girls having the allure of the previous waitress with the jiggly hamstrings and ant-eater nose. Gone were the yeast-infection jorts and gingham tablecloth blouses.

In fact, these bartenders and waitresses didn’t even look Mexican, let alone like tortas to me. They were Caribbean and South American imposters, like Lauren Sanchez if you regressed her 20 years and introduced small amounts of African, Indio, and Havanese admixture. These women had beachy figures like Miami girls but with lighter skin. Most were easy on the eyes but we were in search of something particular, sturdier and more apple-shaped. These cocaine mamis were nice but we were in the market for taco mules with Welch's grape juice cheeks.

Many had fake boobs and most looked like they were praying for overtures that would either pull them out of waiting tables or at least pay their rent. They wore lingerie sets like boustiers and thongs or else slingshots, most of them thankfully still in possession of their God-given asses. They gossiped between tables of construction workers still dirty from work. But where were the tortas? Why were they hiding them?

Our waitress looked like she had only another week or two left before quitting but she laid it on thick nonetheless, asking if I was a model right before guilting us into ordering nachos as part of “a competition she was in.” But women are always in competition and she was probably the worst looking one in the place. She didn’t look like she belonged in a job where you show off your body, but she also wasn’t fat or pretty enough to be a torta.

There had to be at least one torta. Perhaps in hiding. The hunt was on.

I had a plan. To show my hostess a photo of the platonic version of the Apex Torta: Olivia Julianna.

Olivia Julianna is the “queer, plus-size, disabled Latina,” Houstonian, and influencer who first made waves when Bloomberg named her one of the 50 Most Influential People of 2022 for her Democrat fundraising efforts. More recently she led efforts to corral young white men to vote for Kamala Harris and Democrats at large by tapping into the forbidden lust so many of us feel but dare not name. Just as the IDF spent years promoting nubile soldiers with abundant breast meat, the DNC was learning to play dirty with men’s hearts.

The love-handles, the paunch, the fat upper pussy area and vagomach, where were they hiding? Fueled with the energy of a thousand suns, I called in reinforcements, again linking up with my P.I. friend. Just two sensitive young 40-something year-old Jewish guys setting out to locate our own mostly nude, taco-serving Olivia Julianna.

Wallet-sized photos would never capture the beauty or detail needed to make a positive ID so, before pulling up to Ojos, we stopped at a Walmart to pick up picture frames to protect the 8”x11” photos I printed of Olivia Julianna in advance. The whole time we were there, near the napkin dispenser at the edge of our table, we had been proudly displaying Olivia Julianna picture frame with all the detail the black cartridge on the Brother TN830/XL/V printer could muster, knowing that this moment would arrive. Despite erecting a shrine to Julianna in plain sight, our waitress decided to play dumb. 100% Colombian from the lilt in her accent, great because Colombianas are like bloodhounds. Give them enough motivation and they’ll bring you cocaine, organs, and anyone else they’re sex-trafficking.

“Is that your friend?” she asked.

The P.I. said, “Yes.”

Somberly, as though we had just buried Julianna, the waitress said, “She looks lovely.”

I began to pull out $200 in cash as the P.I. said, “You don’t have anyone on staff who looks like this, do you?”

The waitress looked confused but said, “No.”

I could tell this was a waste of time. I looked over at the one black girl working at this location and then back at our waitress and got the check.

While we sat there, it dawned on me that this might not be the fastest way to see what Olivia Julianna looks like serving tacos almost naked so I decided to use Gemini for some cursory inquiries. While doing my own private investigation, I found an article where Julianna brags about getting on Ozempic when my world came crashing down. It turns out big pharma is doing to fat Mexican women what Anthony Bourdain did to cafés and bistros. Yet I still had so many questions that needed answering. For instance, what’s your favorite place to eat? Are tortas Zionists? And why has Novo Nordisk declared war on General Mills and torta pounders worldwide?

I refuse to believe that the only tortas left are left in the bayou. It’s possible I’ve uncovered the largest tortacide the world has ever known. But just as every Ahab has his white whale, every sensitive young 40-something year-old Jewish guy has his perversions. Will I find my Olivia Julianna or will I spend the rest of my days patrolling the American Southwest for a species that no longer exists, an anthropologist with no subject to study? Only time and another thirty-something visits to Ojos Locos will tell whether this noble beast gets the fame and recognition it deserves.