--
A few nights ago we went to dinner at a new Mexican restaurant
nearby.Scrantonisn’t exactly a hotbed of south of the border fare, so we were
excited when we learned about this new place opening up.
It’s advertised as “authentic,” which sounds good on the one
hand… and not so good on the other.Because,
I suspect, I’ve grown accustomed to an Americanized bastard child
version of Mexican food, and probably wouldn’t care for the
“authentic” stuff.
But the food wasn’t the issue; the food was actually pretty good.It was the service that was eating it from the ass-in.
We walked inside this place, and it was absolute pandemonium; it
seemed like every table was occupied, and every person in the house
was yelling.A strolling
mariachi band was moving around the room, strumming tiny stringed
instruments like it was an emergency, and just hollering.
Near the front door was a large piece of poster board, straight out of
the Rite-Aid school supplies aisle, with Magic Marker scribbles all
over it.
It was supposed to inform us of the restaurant’s history; I guess
they have other locations, in places like New Hampshireor some shit, and have been in business for many years.But it just seemed kind of cheap and low-rent to me.I’ve seen better yard sale signs taped to telephone poles.
We were seated immediately, in a boof beside the bathrooms.We’d asked for the no-smoking section, but the bar was ten
feet away.And as I was
flopping down I saw a man there tip his head all the way back, and
expel a great mushroom cloud of cig smoke.The guy next to him started laughing about something, and smoke
not only blasted out of his nose and mouth, but also his eyes, I
think.
I could smell piss biscuits as well.
But whatever.We started
looking at the menus, and vowed to make the best of it.Not everything’s absolute perfection, all the time.
We took our time and decided on what we wanted, but nobody came to our
table.So we waited, and
waited, and waited some more.Finally
a girl came over, smiling and speaking broken English, and asked what
we wanted to drink.
The Secrets ordered Cokes or something, Toney went with a margarita,
and I wanted a beer.But the
selection was incredibly lame.It
was just a full lineup of stuff for people who like the idea
of drinking beer, but don’t really like beer itself.You know, like Coors Light and Corona.Screw it, I just ordered a Budweiser.What are you going to do?
But the girl didn’t walk away.She
acted like she didn’t understand me, or wasn’t familiar with the
name Budweiser, or something.I
repeated it, and even pointed to an illustration on the menu.Finally, she smiled and left us.
And she never came back.A
teenage boy brought the Cokes and the margarita, but there was no word
on my beer.So I waited some
more, until another person walked over and asked what drink I’d
ordered.I told him, and we
watched as he and a group of additional restaurant personnel huddled
together, apparently trying to figure out this thing called Budweiser.
I was starting to get a little annoyed.I know there’s a language barrier, and all that stuff, but
come on.Budweiser?!Tribesmen in the darkest Africa,
with bones through their nose, know Budweiser.
Apparently my exotic and confounding request threw the whole staff
into disarray, and nobody ever returned to the table to take our food
orders.We just sat there
blinking real fast, and shaking our heads in amazement.And keeping track of those fat “singers” out of the corners
of our eyes; I’m not much of a fan of the interactive dining
experience…
I could tell Toney was about to blow.We’d
been there for a long, long time, and hadn’t even ordered our meals
yet.Heck, they didn’t even
manage to bring me my beer.Eventually
she flagged down one of the other waiters (ours apparently went home
for a rest because of chronic Budweiser confusion), and asked to see
the manager.
A few minutes later a man appeared at our table, looking like Bob
Dylan from his Mexican bellhop phase, and
wanted to know how he could help.
Toney told him the whole story, and said we’d just pay for the
drinks and leave.She was in a
state of high-irritation.
But Bob wouldn’t hear of it; he began apologizing profusely, waving
his hands around, and pleading for us to stay.“Everything on the house!” he proclaimed.Toney said no, but I really wanted to check out their food.It looked like everybody else was having a good time.Why not give these folks a chance to redeem themselves?
On the house, of course.
Toney was fully invested in leaving in a huff, but Bob and I convinced
her to stay.He took our orders
personally, and had the bartender himself bring me a Budweiser.
The food arrived quickly, and it was good.The portions were a little on the skimpy side, but it reminded
me of the places we used to frequent in California.I had some sort of burrito plate, and the beef was shredded,
not ground-up.Just the way I
like it.
I now felt guilty about that “on the house” business, and told Bob
it wasn’t necessary.But he
wouldn’t take our money.I
left a generous tip, thanked him, and told him we’d be back.
And as we made our way to the door, we saw that the mariachis were
blocking our way.They were all
playing tiny guitars way up high on their man-tits, and whooping and
hollering at a great volume.
“Don’t make eye-contact,” I commanded the Secrets, and we
negotiated our way around them.
Sheesh. It was almost as bad as “Eric” the white-coat magician who
hangs out at local restaurants on kids-eat-free nights, bugging the
living shit out of everyone with card tricks and disappearing balls.
Almost.
--I’ll leave you now with a
coupla quick things…
Here’s the cover of the new Rolling
Stone,
featuring Barnaby Jones, Senator Rick Santorum, and that old hippie
who sells hemp pet carriers at VeniceBeach.What an odd collection of people…
And Brad sent me this
link to a demonstration video for a new high tech toilet out
of China.Check it out, the animation is fairly hilarious.
Would you ever use such a thing?I
wouldn’t.I mean, how would
you know if it’s lined-up correctly?Is it equipped with laser hole-seeking technology?Somehow I doubt it.No,
I’m imagining a high-pressure jet of water, straight to the grapes.
And I can't have that.
