Although they may sound Irish-Mexican (I dated an Irish-Mexican once, dude was not right in the head) potato tacos seem to be a purely American creation. By American, I mean that my Mexican mother in law made them here in Chicago.
For years, I could not figure out what was so magical about those little tacos. And allow me to digress for a moment, so you can laugh at my lack of Spanish speaking skills. Every time we visited my mother in law's house, she would ask, "Quieres un taco?" and me, being me, didn't really dig tacos enough to eat them quite that often. It was a long time before my husband notified me that "un taco" doesn't necessarily mean A TACO, literally. It's a snack, and bite to eat. He asked, "What, did you think my mother had a store house of tacos somewhere?" Hey, I don't presume to know what your mother does with her food! Maybe she reeeeally likes tacos! *Okay, back to the story of the amazing potato tacos.* Then, on the eve of my darling (and I mean that with zero sarcasm) mother in law's return to Mexico, she showed me how to make them, along with her patented rice.
Last night I made potato tacos and Maria's rice for dinner. Both Daimean and Jesus were in carb loaded heaven. Daimean doesn't really remember much about his abuela, but he sure remembers her food. And for Jesus, who misses his mom, it's a little thing that makes him really happy. Poor Isaiah looked at the whole thing and asked if he could have spaghetti instead.