Jul. 2nd, 2008 09:32 pm
A ripoff at half the price
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muckefuckMany many years ago, my friend Destiny and I vowed that we needed to be wrong about things more often. Ever since That Mexican Cafe moved into ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu's neighbourhood, I've desperately wanted to be wrong in my judgment of it. But it's fruitless: Everything about it screams "terrible Yuppified Mexican" so loudly that a visit is completely superfluous. (The flagship restaurant is in Evanston; 'nuff said right there.) We tried so hard to be game when one got foisted upon us, but it was predictably in vain.
I got the duck fajitas. They were burnt--not pleasantly charred, burnt. I blame the frazzled state of my nerves that I rudely blurted this out in front of the friend who treated us. "You can send it back," she said. I could--and then wait another half hour for a second order; no thank you. At least I could cut off the burnt skin and be left with a reasonably palatable piece of meat, which left me far better off than poormonshu. He was doing his best to conceal how often he was removing from his mouth inedible stringy bits of whatever vegetable was stuffed inside his bland, mushy mockery of chiles rellenos.
Once we were safely out of earshot, he pronounced it "the worst dinner I've had in some time". The one compensation was that weren't paying--and we did offer to! It's too soon to tell how the place is faring, but I'm amazed it has custom at all given that there are two perfectly good taquerías a mere block away. (Is having a mediocre mojito with your meal that important?) At least in Evanston, there's the excuse that all likely competition is every bit as bad. Seriously, the best Mexican restaurant in that town is Chipotle. (I wish that were pure snark, but it's the sad honest truth.)
monshu's neighbourhood, I've desperately wanted to be wrong in my judgment of it. But it's fruitless: Everything about it screams "terrible Yuppified Mexican" so loudly that a visit is completely superfluous. (The flagship restaurant is in Evanston; 'nuff said right there.) We tried so hard to be game when one got foisted upon us, but it was predictably in vain.I got the duck fajitas. They were burnt--not pleasantly charred, burnt. I blame the frazzled state of my nerves that I rudely blurted this out in front of the friend who treated us. "You can send it back," she said. I could--and then wait another half hour for a second order; no thank you. At least I could cut off the burnt skin and be left with a reasonably palatable piece of meat, which left me far better off than poor
monshu. He was doing his best to conceal how often he was removing from his mouth inedible stringy bits of whatever vegetable was stuffed inside his bland, mushy mockery of chiles rellenos.Once we were safely out of earshot, he pronounced it "the worst dinner I've had in some time". The one compensation was that weren't paying--and we did offer to! It's too soon to tell how the place is faring, but I'm amazed it has custom at all given that there are two perfectly good taquerías a mere block away. (Is having a mediocre mojito with your meal that important?) At least in Evanston, there's the excuse that all likely competition is every bit as bad. Seriously, the best Mexican restaurant in that town is Chipotle. (I wish that were pure snark, but it's the sad honest truth.)
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