When
people ask me what I miss about the United States, I tell them “family,
friends and Mexican food.” (Good coffee would also have made the list
eight years ago, but I’m happy to report I now have a plethora of
frothy, barista-made lattes at my fingertips.)
But yeah, Mexican food. Wow. I know the old “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone” adage is probably supposed to apply to pithy, important things like, well, your health or...past loves. But, after eight years in Ireland, I’d equally apply it to a crisp margarita, queso dip and a plate of fish tacos and rice at Los Rancheros in Atlanta. Swoon. Swooooooon. Swooooooooon. I even tried to convince my little bro, a chef, on multiple occasions to re-locate to Dublin, open a Mexican restaurant and save me from the hardship.
It turns out he might have missed the wave. Since the start of the year, Dublin has suddenly come up awash in Mexicana -- from low key burrito bars to high-concept, designer Tex Mex. I am in my element! I hardly have enough weekends in the year to visit them all! But believe you me, I’m gonna give it a good, old-fashioned college try.
A few weeks ago, I dragged M to the high-concept-y place, 777, I’d heard a buzz about. At the time, you couldn't make reservations for fewer than six people. (That I would even need to make a reservation for a Mexican restaurant feels wrong. My first clue that Dublin Tex-Mex might not be my kind of Tex-Mex). Still, I had my heart set on a decent margarita and nacho chips with non-jar salsa.
The place was pretty packed when we swanned through the door around 8 p.m. (Decor is amazeballs btw -- I want the wall tile art in my bathroom.)
But yeah, Mexican food. Wow. I know the old “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone” adage is probably supposed to apply to pithy, important things like, well, your health or...past loves. But, after eight years in Ireland, I’d equally apply it to a crisp margarita, queso dip and a plate of fish tacos and rice at Los Rancheros in Atlanta. Swoon. Swooooooon. Swooooooooon. I even tried to convince my little bro, a chef, on multiple occasions to re-locate to Dublin, open a Mexican restaurant and save me from the hardship.
It turns out he might have missed the wave. Since the start of the year, Dublin has suddenly come up awash in Mexicana -- from low key burrito bars to high-concept, designer Tex Mex. I am in my element! I hardly have enough weekends in the year to visit them all! But believe you me, I’m gonna give it a good, old-fashioned college try.
A few weeks ago, I dragged M to the high-concept-y place, 777, I’d heard a buzz about. At the time, you couldn't make reservations for fewer than six people. (That I would even need to make a reservation for a Mexican restaurant feels wrong. My first clue that Dublin Tex-Mex might not be my kind of Tex-Mex). Still, I had my heart set on a decent margarita and nacho chips with non-jar salsa.
The place was pretty packed when we swanned through the door around 8 p.m. (Decor is amazeballs btw -- I want the wall tile art in my bathroom.)
When no attention was paid to us by anyone resembling staff, we made a
bee-line for two free spaces at the bar. This (finally) provoked a
reaction from the staff in form of the hostess nearly body-checking us
to the floor.
“Those seats aren’t free.” Withering look. “You’re too late for a seating tonight.” (A glance at my phone reveals it's now 8:07 p.m.)
Me, crestfallen. “Oh no! I was so looking forward to eating here. Could we get a get a drink at the bar instead?”
“There is no bar.”
“What’s that then?” I ask, pointing to the bar.
“It’s a dinner counter.” Ah. “Plus we don’t serve just drinks.” More withering.
My brow puckers in confusion, so M explains: they don’t have a bar license, so can only serve alcohol with meals.
“So there’s really no chance of us eating here tonight?”
“No,” she responds pointedly, flexing her artfully tattooed arms, while primly smoothing the skirt of her 1950’s-style dress. I'm sure I've seen her photo on latfh.com
We stare at one another a beat longer than is wholly polite -- I believe they call this a Mexican stand-off? -- before I turn on heel and walk out the door.
“We’ll come back another time,” I call out.
“Oh, we’ll be ready for you,” [I imagine] she answers.
You’d think after the above experience, I might write this Mex off my list. But no, I’m a glutton for punishment (and restaurant buzz -- it really is supposed to be the best of the new openings.) So I drag M back the following Saturday evening at 6:30 p.m. I do realize the time of day qualifies us for the blue-rinse brigade, but we were already in town and hungry, so...
This time, we are seated relatively quickly at the bar dinner counter and it’s a mere ten minutes before our waiter, who looks like he’s been on a three-day bender, calls over to take our order. I spit out “lime margarita with salt on the rim, pronto” almost before he’s in earshot. M clearly wishes a hole would open up in the ground so he can jump in, but settles for mumbling “Dos Equis, uno” while darting “tone it down” looks at me.
The menu isn’t quite Los Rancheros value (22 euro for a main, cough, splutter, cough), but we settle for a variety of tostados and taquitos that, when grouped together, constitute a full meal. Our waiter looks less than thrilled and I resist the urge to reassure him -- “don’t worry, we’ll be drinking our bill tonight, not eating it.” When my (first) margarita arrives, I take an initial sip and allow the nostalgia/tequila to seep through my veins. Delicious, cold, tart! I am back in the States! I am happy! I am giddy with love for Treble 7! (The food is pretty darned good too.) M shakes his head.
“I could have made you a margarita at home, if that’s what all this is about...”
But then we would have missed out on the wall-tile-art...and that would be muy lamentable, no?
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| Happy Cinco de Mayo, peeps... |
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