Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who’s burnt all his Roald Dahl books in disgust
NEVER trust a Mexican, my uncle used to tell me, and he was a cocaine importer so knew of what he spoke. He’s still serving time at Winson Green for ignoring his own advice.
Largely drugs barons with imposing moustaches crossing borders illegally, they’ll take out a contract on your life for being late setting off at the lights. And remember swine flu? That was their idea.
However, they do hate the Yanks so we do have some common ground, and I like a dash of hot sauce on my home cooking especially when it’s past the best-before date.
So when an old colleague’s in town and suggests we meet for Mexican, I’m in there faster than a roadside burger gives you the shits. See? I could have said burrito there, but I didn’t. Because I’m not prejudiced.
First impression? The decor’s straining to make a point. Flags and plastic cacti everywhere when this is still our country. Even then I’ve only got three Union Jacks at home: front garden, back garden, and bathroom window because I’ve not got round to curtains.
We order drinks to kick off and I go for a margarita only to find salt left all over the rim of the glass. I would, but decide it’s not worth the risk of getting my throat slit, or the Mexican Bootlace as they call it.
Apparently Jim’s been teetotal for the last 15 years, after what he calls ‘the boardroom incident’. That’s his lookout. I down my drink and ask them to leave the bottle of tequila, because it sound like it’ll be a long fucking night.
We start with a few dips and hand-made tortilla chips. Okay, but no improvement on those massive packs from Tesco. The guacamole intrigues me though, as I’d assumed that was a South American country which started wars over football. They’re fiery down that way.
There’s also Worcestershire sauce on every table, as apparently it’s a favourite condiment back in Mexico. Yet more proof English food is the best in the world, though I don’t have any because I hate the stuff.
On to mains, and it’s pretty much meat, onions and peppers in folded tortillas. Like different flavours of Findus Crispy Pancakes, only without being so molten hot they burn the roof of your mouth off.
I go for the fajitas and I’m told you’re meant to eat it with your hands. For fuck’s sake, at these prices? I stick to my guns and demand a knife and fork. Jim gives me a funny look but I’m halfway down the tequila so who cares?
He’s on about his kids, about his career, about recognising what a wreck he’d made of his life through drink as if it were in some way pertinent to me. I’ve had some far-too-hot chillis which I’m drowning in booze. It’s hardly a meeting of minds or cultures.
So when he pops for a piss after telling me he can ‘put me in touch with people who can help’, I grab my last fajita and stagger for the door. I’m all over the place but still disappear into the night, like a bandito in a sombrero, before he returns.
A twat’s trick? Yes. But thoroughly justified, I think as I board the last bus home. Anyway, Mexican food? Alright if you’re boozing and have time to sleep it off, though I wouldn’t fancy being my arse in the morning.
