Hooray for the old skool Mexican joint. Seriously, fuck that gold-plated burrito shit; this is the real deal. Tile floors, tile walls, plastic tablecloths, beat up chairs and walls dotted with chachkies from the Mexican section of the Oriental Trading Company catalog. Add in a drippy air conditioner stuck in the corner, some ancient sample bottles on a weak shelf of the beer selection and a string of Christmas lights and you have the perfect Mexican grubbing experience. Sure there were some cheap items, but I went for the crazy chicken mole poblano, which ran me about $16. Not quite as cheap as you’d expect from a joint with a dirty sombrero as its centerpiece decoration, but this didn’t look like no Crunchwrap Supreme, so I just sucked it up and ignored the fact I could order dinner for 4 for that price at The Bell. And, boy, did I make the right choice. No-frills to be sure, but lousy with the million herbs and spices that go into a good mole, and tasty as all get out as those ingredients made their way over my palate and down my gullet. And then I washed it all down with a Negro Modela (and/or a Bohemia), which just enhanced the awesome spiciness and complexity of the mole. Rad. Would I take a date here to impress her? Probably not. Would I go back and get that meal again. In a heartbeat. Me gusto. [MF]
321 E Houston St.