Ever Have Tostilocos?

They’re simple and straightforward, a bag of Tostitos, sliced open lengthwise on an edge, the chips covered in an avalanche of fruit, greens, peanuts and hot sauce–more specifically, cacahuates japoneses, jícama, cucumber, cueritos and tamarind, sometimes mango, all bathed in lime, Valentina hot sauce and chamoy. It’s a mess. It’s a marvel. It’s Mexico doing food differently, better, taking a boring snack and making it so much more.

Cutting open a bag of Tostitos, pouring some salsa on the chips and eating them straight out of the bag sounds decadent, like something to do only when no one is watching. How about going out to a restaurant whose speciality is to mix you a tasty, over-the-top, chip-salad-in-a-bag? And eating it in public with a spoon? That’s the what of tostilocos, but it doesn’t come close to the OMG of it.

Tostilocos didn’t fall from the sky or come out of some deranged kitchen. The widely-accepted origin story places them in Tijuana in the late 1990s or early 2000s, when a street vendor somewhere near the border decided Tostitos in a bag were simply a vessel waiting for a special destiny. The New York Times tried to explain the phenomenon, noting that tostilocos began by “opening a bag of Tostitos…and then taking the ingredients from three shelves in a bodega and dumping all of those in.” It makes perfect sense once you see it in person. The truth is simple: teens loved them, word spread, and soon the “locos” family tree exploded.

‍BOTANAS WITH NO OFF SWITCH

To understand tostilocos, you have to understand botanas, Mexico’s all-purpose word for snack food. Botanas aren’t meant to be delicate, health-positive, or even logical. They’re built for pleasure, for passing around, for sharing with three friends at a park bench or a tiendita counter. If antojitos are hot finger-food made to satisfy cravings—things like tacos, quesadillas, gorditas—botanas are their lawless cousins, served in bags, cups and styrofoam containers, made to be eaten standing up, preferably with chile-stained fingers.

Tostilocos live in that lawless snack land: not quite candy, not quite street food, not quite a meal, yet fully capable of ruining your appetite and your culinary dignity in one go.

‍THE EXPANDED LOCOS UNIVERSE

Once the formula was established—chips + acid + chile + crunch + something pickled + something gummy = joy—the mutations multiplied. Here are a few other “locos”:

Dorilocos—Same concept, swap Tostitos for Doritos. Nacho cheese flavor meets chamoy. No one is safe.

Cheetolocos—Flamin’ Hot Cheetos as the base, for people who laugh in the face of gastrointestinal consequences.

Esquiteslocos—a cup of corn suddenly buried under Takis, Ruffles or crushed chips, drowning in lime and chiles. A love letter to dental bills.

Ramenlocos—Instant Cup of Noodles cracked open at the styrofoam altar, doused in chamoy, cueritos, lime, Salsa Maggie and peanuts. A snack, an experiment, a cry for help.

Chicharrón preparado—not technically a “loco,” but a close cousin—an edible raft of puffed chicharrón [pork rinds], covered in lettuce, tomato, crema, cueritos, and salsa.

This is not chaos for chaos’s sake. There is a method here: texture stacking, acid relief, sugar spikes, salt satisfaction and the universal delight of watching a vendor absolutely ignore the food pyramid.

‍THE FLAVOR BOMB

What looks deranged when listed out on paper is, in practice, a perfectly wired flavor bomb. The formula is consistent—crunch from the chips, the peanuts, the cucumber and the jicama; chewy from cueritos [pickled pig skin] and tamarind candy; acid from the lime; sweet from the chamoy; heat from the hot sauce and salt from the chips and all of the above.

It hits every sensory button at once. It shouldn’t work, and yet it very much does. Just ask the teenagers who can demolish a bag in five minutes and then calmly go surfing.

WHY MEXICO SNACKS THIS WAY

Because why wouldn’t it? Snack culture in Mexico isn’t about restraint. It’s about improvisation, about building something satisfying out of whatever’s at hand. It’s the same logic that gave the world tajín [a spicy, salty, citrusy seasoning] on fruit, sal de gusano [toasted, ground agave worms, dried chilies, and salt] on oranges, chamoy on micheladas [pickled fruit sauce on spiced beer], and childhood candy that could double as a chemistry kit.

It’s also a ritual—literally. As La Onda’s media manager, María Fernanda, explained it, the best mix of all is actually tostiesquites: tortilla chips plus esquites. “It’s that simple and that delicious,” she told me, like this should be obvious.

She also pointed out that in cities, many snack food stands pop up near churches. Elotes, churros, papitas—and if you’re lucky, tostilocos. “Coincidence? I don’t think so,” she said. “Church and snacks are connected. Maybe it’s the reward after the spiritual ritual—and it brings you back to the most human reactions. It’s almost a sin.”

When I texted her to confirm the rumor that she was a tostilocos connoisseur, she replied, “obvioooo!!” before I even finished typing. Then she said she was already salivating. Apparently this is normal; any Mexican who reads the word tostilocos starts craving them instantly.

“And by the way,” she added, “it’s the perfect snack for the launch party.”

‍FIELD RESEARCH (TRONCONES EDITION)

I needed to experience this phenomenon, so I dragged Benito out to Tostilokera, just south of the T in Troncones. We found María and Víctor there, happy to bless us with our first official tostilocos.

Ours were meticulously put together, vegetarian, without the cueritos, which honestly have no real flavor—it may be pig skin but it’s basically like tofu, taking on whatever flavor you add. I’m also not usually a fan of jicama but it really does serve a cool, crunchy purpose here.

We were both pleasantly surprised and fully satisfied by our chip salad—that’s what it tasted like, LOL—but the real joy was connecting with our neighbors and hearing a bit of tostilocos history. María and Víctor recently built their little shop—a kind of mini-Mexican diner that also serves burgers, burritos, milkshakes, and other malt-shop-style snacks with real pride and care.

We opted for a liter of fresh coconut water to wash down the salty-sweet-spicy madness. A perfect choice. And at 180 pesos for two tostilocos and a liter of coco, a pretty good date night.

I couldn’t finish my whole bag, but María Fernanda had instructed me to take the remains to the “esquites lady” in front of the Las Hermanas library. So, I followed orders, in awe for my second course of tostiloco madness as I watched Elida pile a spoonful of warm, wet corn over my half-eaten bag and smother it in mayo and queso fresco. OMG. No words. Like creamed corn on LSD.

Other countries have tapas. Mexico has a bag full of existential decisions.

‍WHERE TO GET THEM

Tostilokera—the obvious choice here, just south of the T

There’s also a spot on Main Street that was pointed out to me on a map with an X. I couldn’t tell you exactly where it is. But there is one there.

Elida serves up authentic esquites and chicharrón preparados on Thursday and Saturday nights in front of the Las Hermanas Library.

In Troncones, the real trick is simply knowing when and where. Sometimes the stand is on Main Street. Sometimes it’s in the upstairs burger place. Sometimes a teenager materializes with a dripping bag and you follow them like wildlife.

SO… ARE THEY GOOD FOR YOU?

Absolutely not. That’s not the point. Tostilocos are not a health food, a balanced snack or a pre-workout option. They are joy, with consequences. They are the culinary equivalent of saying “fuck it” on a hot afternoon. And, honestly, it’s better than kale.

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THE FINAL WORD

If you came here for judgment, you’re in the wrong country. Tostilocos aren’t trying to be respectable. They aren’t pretending to be a salad. They are the edible anthem of a nation that knows pleasure is not the enemy. Grab the bag, squeeze the lime, accept the chaos. The world is already loco—you might as well eat accordingly.

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P.S., MORE ON CHAMOY

Chamoy does not have a direct English-language equivalent but it’s described as “a condiment made from pickled fruits, chilies and spices presenting a sweet, sour, salty and spicy flavor profile”. It’s used in Mexico in many forms, including sauces, pastes and candies. It’s often drizzled on fruits, snacks and cocktails. As a dipping sauce, it can be used for meats and snacks, or even as a marinade. Chamoy is also a popular topping for popcorn, nachos and vegetables, like carrots and celery. Again, it has no equal; it’s good on everything.  

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