The Mercado Madness

Restaurant Review #3.

  Once upon a time, dear reader, there was a wildly popular dining establishment located on the far western end of Northwest Highway in Dallas. This restaurant, known as Mercado Juarez and featuring delicious Mexican fare with a tendency to be both fried and incredibly spicy, was all the rage. Each night, the place would be packed to the brim, meaning that if you had any real intention of being seated you had to fight your way to the all-powerful hostess, knocking aside small children and grandmothers, and try to impress her in some way that would allow you to be seated within the next 24 hours.

  And really, once your party was deemed worthy enough to have temporary ownership of a table, the ensuing experience made everything worth it. The drinks were aggressive and colorful, the staff was courteous and responsive, and there’s simply nothing better than exquisitely-balanced combinations of grease, heat and abundant cheese. You would eventually be belching and stumbling your way into the parking lot, sated and happy.

  But things change.

  It had been years since I had entered the once-hallowed doors of the Mercado. If memory serves, the last visit, somewhere around 2005,  had something to do with a work-related outing, one of those usually-vile experiences where co-workers from various regions of the country gather together to dine and pretend that we are some type of mystical family of mankind. Thankfully, those aggressive drinks helped everyone exude an air of camaraderie that buried our day-to-day grievances about certain members of our team that were too mean to live.

  Flash forward to the current week.

  One of our former co-workers and dear friends, a vivacious woman who had up and moved halfway across the country several years ago, was back in town for some work-related mess and she wanted to meet for drinks and dinner. I was not part of the social planning committee (and therefore absolved of any eventual regret or guilt) which handled the arrangements, but it was decided that our reunion shindig would take place at the once-fabled Mercado Juarez. Upon hearing the news, I was a bit perplexed.

  Upon arriving at work the day of the scheduled extravaganza, I shared my perplexity with bestie Apiphany: “Is that place still open? Did we check on that? Has anybody even been there this decade?”

  Apiphany, always the trooper: “Oh. Well, the last time I drove by the place, it seems like there were cars in the parking lot. I think. Not really sure. It’s not like somebody texted me and said ‘hey, make sure Mercado Juarez is still open the next time you go get sangria at Big Daddy’s House of Liquor and Stuff’, so I wasn’t really paying attention.” Then she smiled in her trademark way of expecting people to love her no matter what.

  So it was with some trepidation that Apiphany and I fled our office building and caravanned our way to the restaurant. (We were going to be the first to arrive, since we both firmly believe that social engagements are far more important than mundane things like job responsibilities and remaining on conference calls that were pointless. Besides, we had given ourselves the highly-worshipped responsibility of arriving early enough to procure a large table in a desirable location that would maximize our enjoyment. We take these things seriously.)

  We pulled into the parking lot, and we were quite pleased to observe that there were indeed other cars hither and yon in the parking lot, a positive sign that there was most likely some type of life within the establishment. (Although it must be said that the relative paucity of vehicles was a far cry from the glory days when you couldn’t even get in to the parking lot, and instead you had to park blocks away and stomp through the Texas heat to get anywhere near the building.)

  We parked side-by-side, because it’s a cute thing to do, and then hopped out. I confirmed my supply of gas pills (something you must do after the age of 40 or so, especially when Mexican fare is involved), Apiphany confirmed that she had applied adequate lip gloss (something she must always be doing because we have established this tradition in my blog posts), and we trotted through the doors of the building, hoping for the best.

  And then we made a very profound mistake.

  To be fair, we were a little confused and disoriented, what with not having been here in forever coupled with that off-putting transition from fierce sunlight to dim interior that happens in Texas, resulting in folks being basically blind and drunk-appearing. We staggered over to one lady who was manning what looked like some type of welcoming station, only to find out that she was not the least bit interested in our needs, despite standing at a concierge-like counter and wearing a festive outfit that would normally make one think “hey, she looks like she knows stuff, let’s ask her”.

  Pointless Woman (we never did find out what her actual purpose in life might be) smiled at our stupidity, then waved us around a corner in the supposed direction of someone who might care. So we traipsed around that corner and marched a football field or so to another station, where we encountered a very short woman who was probably standing on phone books. We explained our plight to her (“we just want to eat and drink, can we actually do that in here?”) and she initially appeared quite pleased to satisfy our needs. “Table for two?”

  Well, actually, no. “There’s going to be about 8 or 10 of us,” I naively said.

  Her expression changed to one indicating that I had just excreted something unpleasant on the floor. She pointed behind us and muttered “Wait. Over there.” Then she turned and fled the country.

  Apiphany and I glanced behind us. There were several couches placed about, couches that appeared to have survived one of the earlier Mexican revolutions. Still confused, we selected one of the smaller couches, hoping to minimize our visual presence after managing to somehow offend the employees of this establishment. We perched and we pondered.

  Apiphany: “What the hell was that all about?”

  Me: “I guess we have to wait until everybody is here. Or she is religiously offended by the provocative lip gloss dripping from your lips.”

  Apiphany, surveying the seating accommodations in the cavernous floor plan of the building. “I see people sitting at three tables. There are 97 empty tables, some of them large enough to hold all of the Dallas Cowboys. Why are they not letting us drink yet? I hate them.”

  So we sat. And waited. With Apiphany receiving periodic texts from our other cohorts as they submitted status updates on their estimated times of arrival. (No one ever texts me. Probably because I never pay any attention when my pocket pings and vibrates. I just assume that I’m having another anxiety episode of some kind and I keep doing whatever I’m doing. Or take a pill.)

  Then we noticed the bar directly in front of us. (We are very observant people.) Apiphany: “We could go in there and get a drink.”

  Me: “If we do that, we are not going to care when everybody else shows up, and we will probably hide from them and giggle.”

  Apiphany, sighing: “True, true.”

  So we remained bored and unquenched for a bit longer. Then there was some type of clattering commotion and one of our co-workers, Riker, came strolling up. This pleased us immensely. Riker generally does not participate in our social drinking games, choosing instead to spend time with his beloved wife. His appearance offered up a promising form of entertainment, because we now had the opportunity to shove beers at him and make him spill about what he actually thought about everything. Yay!

  Riker had another agenda in mind. “Why are you sitting out here?”

  Oh.

  Tiffany waved her hand with serious disdain at the hostess station where the short woman used to stand before she sought political asylum in a country where large groups of people did not arrange to eat at the same time. “The serving wench hates us. There will be no alcohol served until everyone arrives. This is why people need medication.” She then made a second hand gesture that may have been expressing her disdain with the complications of life or that she simply needed medical attention and someone needed to do something about that if they wished to remain in her will.

  Riker contemplated this pronouncement, along with the very real possibility that one of his co-workers may have issues that modern society cannot adequately resolve, then he chose to follow the path of least resistance. “Okay, then. What should we talk about until all members of the circus have arrived?”

  Talk? Oh, this could be fun. Riker was one of those folks where you never really know the full story, sometimes coming into work as a complete ray of sunshine and frivolity, entertaining us all with his amusing exploits, and then other times arriving in an odd cloud of mystery, speaking to no one and acting very much like one would if they were a furtive government agent intent on gathering data that might lead to a prison term. The chance to speak to him on a basic human level was an opportunity to be relished.

  I leaned forward, in anticipation of a conversation that would reveal all. Apiphany leaned forward with the same intent. But two seconds into her lean, she realized that the spotlight was no longer on hers truly, and she instantly went to her safe place, which was a discussion of her own merits and her self-perceived status as royalty in some manner. “Well,” she orated, making a third hand gesture that had nothing to do with anything, “It all started when I was in second grade and Mother forced me to wear a garment that was homespun and belittling, and I immediately-”

  Riker leapt to his feet, briefly clutching at an amulet he wore around his neck, an evil-spirit-defying accessory that he had wisely purchased in Texarkana during another dark time when people revealed too much in Mexico-themed food establishments. “Let’s go talk to the lady who isn’t there about getting a table even though we don’t technically qualify for such a life-goal at this moment.”

  That was fine by me. I leapt as well, proudly standing by his side in a defiant manner that was hopefully both reactionary and photogenic. Apiphany, on the other hand, was a bit nonplussed. How was it possible that the common folk did not want to hear the tragic tale of how she was horribly abused by a fashion-lacking parent in the mid-70’s? But she managed to pull herself together, most likely due to the siren call of free-flowing tequila, and she leapt in solidarity.

  The three of us marched to the hostess station, with the firm conviction that we were willing and able to sacrifice everything in our lives in order to have guacamole and chips placed before us. Nothing could stop us. If innocent lives had to be taken, so be it.

  Riker cleared his throat, in a noble and admirable way. “We’re ready for a table,” he announced, standing tall.

  The person on the other side of the hostess station didn’t say anything at all. Probably because no one was standing there.

  Then we heard a bang, and someone walked out of one of those mysterious swinging doors that they always have in places where you have to pay for food and questionable attempts at ambiance. The skinny little man appeared to be on his way to parts unknown, but he glanced in our direction, and paused with what appeared to be surprise that visitors had arrived who apparently needed something, which was a shocking thing, in a restaurant where people need lots of things, like food and adequate service.

  Skinny Man approached the station. “Can I help you?” he asked, even though his body language said something completely different, along the lines of “do you idiots even realize that there was a misunderstanding about the refried beans at Table 12?”

  Apiphany made her fourth random gesture of the evening, a night that was still very young. “We wish to be seated. Despite the fact that some errant members of our party have not managed to arrive just yet.”

  Riker and I both looked at Apiphany. Had she been raised in England?

  Skinny Man smiled limply, in a manner that made it very clear he was quite used to peons demanding extraordinary things at inopportune times. “Of course. Follow me.” He grabbed three menus from the stack of such in the cesspool pile of social germs to his right, then turned to march forth stoically into the wide expanse of obviously available tables from here to the horizon, his shoulders sagging with the torment of trying to figure out where we might be seated.

  We followed, mainly because the narrative says that we should at this point.

  Skinny Man led us to a table that could clearly seat 12, which meant that the political refugee who had previously manned the hostess station must have handed off notes to her fellow employees before going dark. Skinny flopped three menus in our general direction and then wandered off, presumably heading to a counseling center where someone could help him understand that it’s okay to be happy.

  Two seconds later, our waiter arrived. (Of course he did, there was absolutely nothing else happening in the entire restaurant, and he was bored.) He introduced himself, but I really didn’t pay any attention to that part, as I was busy wondering why my wooden chair seemed to have a stability issue, so we’ll just call him Armando.

  Armando: “Would you care for a cocktail?”

  Apiphany: “I want the biggest margarita on the entire planet.”

  Me: “And I want something even bigger.”

  Riker: “A Coke.”

  Armando rushed off to make arrangements for our beverage needs, while Apiphany and I turned to glare at Riker with astonishment and dismay. A non-alcoholic beverage? This clearly wouldn’t do, not if we wished to get him loose-lipped enough to gain usable office-gossip intelligence. But before we could school him properly, the rest of our friends began to arrive, meandering their way through the 7 miles of other patrons between the main entrance and our palatial table shoved up against the wall of the kitchen area.

  Included in this entourage was the actual guest of honor, the divine Miss Besh Viaduct, fresh from the suburbs of our nation’s capital and all aglow with the impending joys of our reunion. I rushed to embrace her, with plenty of air-kissing and beaming expressions and the sharing of pictures of children that we don’t actually have. The rest of the entourage followed suit, and there was joy throughout the land.

  Then we all sat down, requested additional fortifying beverages, ordered appetizers and entrees that appeared to be appealing on the somewhat puzzling menu, caught each other up on our life experiences and the best way to avoid jail time after ill-advised decisions, and carried on in that interesting manner that good friends do when each of them knows a dark secret about everyone else at the table but doesn’t know who else knows of the darkness. Great fun, as always.

  Then we paid the checks and went home.

  Notice how, even though this is a restaurant review, I didn’t actually mention anything about the food? Mmm hmm. Let’s just say that I understand how you can now park in the actual parking lot of this establishment. Got it? Cheers!

Restaurant Review #1 - Fried Baloney Sandwiches at the Anemia Stop Café

  Trying something new here, just to see how it goes. I thought I would take a shot at applying my own interpretation to a restaurant review. My first target is “Maple & Motor”, a burger joint in Dallas. Here goes:

  Okay, my first issue with this place starts with the name. “Maple” and “Motor” are two streets that cross nearby, and while I agree that the name is kind of catchy, this restaurant is not located at that intersection. Instead, it’s on the corner of Maple and Clara. You might find this to be a minor quibble, but I look at it this way: I’m not even inside your building yet, and you’re already lying to me. This is going to be a challenging courtship.

  So we park the car and approach the entrance, where we encounter several notices posted on the door. One of them clarifies that we should “order first, and then select a table appropriate for your party”. Interesting. Thank you for the bit about ordering first. It’s very frustrating when you wander into an unfamiliar establishment, cautiously select a booth, and then get ignored for an hour until a bored, 12-year-old waitress wanders by, discovers you sitting there, then grunts and points at the counter.

  We step inside, and quickly learn that the atmosphere can be described as “cozy”. Several tables, a couple of booths, and a jukebox. It’s the kind of place where everyone turns and stares as you stagger in from the sunshine, temporarily blinded by the comparative dimness, because there’s nothing else to look at. I don’t like finding myself at the center of an impromptu floor show.

  Off to the left is a long counter, where you can apparently place your order, pick up your order, get a frosty beverage from a small bar, and possibly request a passport. I’m not sure, there are several things going on, with multiple people on the other side of the counter, bent on unknown tasks. But there does appear to be a small line with other people trying to figure out what to do as well, so we join them.

  As we wait our turn, I notice two guys standing to our left, somewhat near the “order up” part of the grill. Initially, I think they are just waiting for their food. Then I realize that they are grinning and nodding their heads at everybody that comes in. Do they possibly work here? Are they greeters of some kind? But why aren’t they actually speaking? And why would they need two of them in this tiny place? This is slightly troubling. I don’t immediately rule out the possibility that we are actually standing in a cult recruitment center of some kind.

  There’s a shift in humanity, and suddenly we are standing at the counter, facing an older woman who couldn’t possibly make it any more clear that the last thing in the world she wants to do is take our order. She doesn’t even say anything, just kind of looks at us and waits, sporting a welcoming smile that is so fake it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she was giving birth at the same time. Okay, then. We’re on our own.

  Directly behind Chatty is a chalkboard with the menu. It’s rather limited in the number of items, which is fine, and it’s kind of hard to read, which is not so fine, and the details are very sketchy, which sucks. But I decide to go with the fried baloney sandwich, because it’s something I absolutely don’t need and it should be a good test for the kitchen. If you can make a decent fried baloney sandwich, you ain’t half bad.

  Then Lethargia throws me with a question. “You don’t want fries with that?”

  No, I didn’t SAY I don’t want fries, why are you making that call for me? Has someone spoken to you about my cholesterol? I’m guessing they don’t come WITH the sandwich, like I was somewhat assuming, but since your stupid board doesn’t tell me what does or does not come with, I didn’t know to make the special request. “Yes, I want fries, too.”

  She sighs. Apparently she now has to start completely over, because I was so rude and threw her with a complicated order. Now she distrusts me and has further questions. “Do you want a drink?”

  No, I’ll just choke it all down. I can always drink out of the toilet if there’s an emergency. “Yes, I’d like a drink.” If it’s not too much trouble. If you need a manager for an over-ride, forget it.

  She throws a Styrofoam cup in my direction. More punching of keys on the register, then “Is that all?”

  Well, I don’t know. Are the condiments extra? Is there a surcharge for a straw? “I think that’s it. Oh, and whatever he wants.” I point at Terry, standing beside me and a little frightened that it’s now his turn. There’s been so many questions so far.

  She sighs again, because her life is so horrible and people just don’t understand, then she glares at Terry. Luckily, he’s been taking notes, and quickly provides all the necessary details about his nourishment needs without having to be prodded. Anemia pointedly glances at me, letting me know that THAT’S how it’s done, and that I really need to work on my ordering skills. She lovingly hands him his own drink cup, then punches about 47 more buttons and finally announces a total.

  I hand her a credit card.

  She takes it reluctantly, studying it with suspicion as if I just laid a dead possum on the counter. She flips it over a few times, furtively looks at one of her co-workers, and then attempts to slide the card in the little slot on the side of her machine. I say “attempt” because she’s not very good at it. She half-heartedly sticks the card in, and then barely moves it, as if waiting for gravity to pull her hand downward for her.

  Of course it doesn’t work. She displays her insipidness about twelve more times, then gets her co-worker’s attention. Can he try it? He studies the card as well (people, it’s a MasterCard, not a nuclear weapon) and then slides it up and down in the slot like he’s trying to get the campfire started.

  Meanwhile, the line behind me is growing longer, with people getting a little stir-crazy. I glance in their direction with an expression that I hope conveys “I don’t even know you, but I want you to understand this is not my fault. I don’t have financial issues. I have a credit limit that can fund Rhode Island. These people just don’t know what they’re doing.”

  The crowd just stares at me. They don’t care about my need for validation. They just want food.

  Eventually, the guy at the register gives up and starts to manually punch in the numbers on the card. (You could have done that fifteen minutes ago, Einstein.) Lo and behold, the transaction whizzes through. Lethargia tears off a slip and hands it to me to sign, which I do with the quickest scrawl I can, shoving it right back. Then she takes my card and just lays it on the counter for me to pick up.

  Oh no she didn’t. That makes me crazy. I had the decency to politely hand it to you, you can perform the same courtesy in return. This isn’t Chinatwon, where it’s just part of the culture to place someone’s change on the counter. This is the Oak Lawn part of Dallas, and nearly everyone you meet is gay. Not only should you have placed the card back in my hand, you should have sung a show tune while you did so. Can’t stand her.

  Then she places yet another drink cup in front of me. (Is she on drugs? Do I look really thirsty? How many of me does she see?) I leave it sitting there as we head to the soda fountain with our original cups.

  I get my ice, and then push the button for root beer, which sounded refreshing at that particular moment. Sadly, the machine didn’t agree with my selection, and squirts out this white, gassy froth. No syrup.

  Instantly, this little guy runs out of the back room, screaming that the root beer is out of syrup. (I guess that’s his sole job, to monitor such.) He pops open the machine and starts fiddling with a mostly-depleted bag of brown goo. “Try again.”

  More froth, and a startling burping noise.

  More fiddling. Again.

  Still more froth.

  Great. First I was holding up the order line, because people don’t understand the intricacies of plastic cards. Now nobody can get anything to drink, as I stand in there in slight embarrassment while a man is on his knees before me, jerking on a bizarre cow udder to no avail.

  Three hours later, I finally have some root beer. Terry and I scurry to the back of the seating area and plop down at a table near the jukebox. Now we just have to wait for our food. And any other humiliation that might be available.

  But at least we learn the true purpose of the grinning, wordless duo standing near the grill. They actually pick up the completed orders, scream out the number on the order, and then proceed to the person who has that number, assuming that person who has the number is paying attention and has not left the building because the root beer isn’t working right.

  A bit later, here comes Chuckles with our delivery. He slaps down one baloney sandwich, one hamburger, and one order of fries. Then he races back to his serving partner because apparently they can’t be separated for very long or the government will collapse.

  We stare at the single paper boat of fries, because we ordered two. It’s an awful lot of fries, though, so maybe they combined them? Somewhat rude, but possible. I’m fine with it. I don’t need that many fries anyway, like the cashier tried to imply. But Terry’s not hip. We paid for two, we get two. Off he goes, returning shortly with an apologetic Chuckles and more crispy, salty goodness.

  At last, we get to taste the wares. The fried baloney sandwich is actually pretty good. Not the best I’ve ever had. (That distinction belongs to a former hole in the wall in south Oak Cliff, known as “Big Al’s”. They would actually bread the bologna and THEN fry it. Oh. My. GOD. It was beyond nirvana. When that place closed down, I had to go on medication.)

  Terry is enjoying his burger as well, so from an actual food perspective, this place is decent. I start to relax, and ponder coming here again. Just then, the jukebox suddenly blares to life.

  What the hell? No one is even near it. Well, WE are, with the main speaker just behind my startled head, but we didn’t touch it. And for some ungodly reason, the song selection is something from Rush. I’m not familiar with their repertoire, so I don’t have a title, but you can’t mistake that lead voice. And it’s one of those jam sessions that will last for days, with wailing guitars and a very excited drum player.

  Next thing you know, people are pouring into the place, overwhelming Lethargia at her station and snapping up all the tables. (Wow, guess these people really like Rush, and turned into the parking lot when they heard it on the street.) Within seconds, I am over this dining experience. It’s too small, there’s too many people, and there’s far too much noise. I calmly finish the rest of my meal, but it’s time to go.

  Once Terry is done, I leap to my feet and begin clawing my way to the door. Suddenly, just as I can see daylight at the end of the tunnel, some manager-type semi-accosts me and wants to know if we enjoyed it. Right at that moment, I get one of those weird coughing fits where you are basically choking on your own saliva. So even though I try to nod my head affirmatively, the retching noises I’m making don’t exactly speak highly of the menu. The manager gets a puzzled look, but then Lethargia screams out that someone else is trying to use a credit card, and he’s off.

  Gasping for air and tripping over people who won’t get out of the way, I stagger out the door and into the parking lot. The Rush guitar solo is still playing as we drive off into the distance.

  I have a feeling they probably don’t want us to come back. Or at least me. I would imagine they love Terry. He knows how to order properly, has developed a better relationship with both Chatty and Chuckles, and doesn’t select beverages that require a maintenance worker…