[Knockers hijacks the blog again as she goes to more exotic locations on a more regular basis than me. Life=Unfair. Charlie=A Dish. Time=Money. Money=Power. Time=Power. Rolex=Overlord.]
A few years ago, someone who mistook my verbal-diarrhoea for extroversion asked, nay instructed me to address a conference of over six hundred (self) important people at a FTSE 100 company-that-shall-remain-nameless. My protestations were denied, and I was scheduled to follow the most sly, immoral, and smelly person I have ever met. Let’s call her Miss Whifferson. Miss Whifferson would do her turn, introduce me and I would come on to rapturous applause, fainting, a shower of roses etc.
That was not how shiz went down.
I was having a lady’s-excuse-me when I heard my name booming over the PA. I squeezed, wiped, washed and raced the not-insignificant distance to the stage hearing my name again and again, followed by a snide comment and quite the titter from my would-be adoring audience. The grinning Miss Whifferson had failed to mention that her bit had been cut, due to (a-hem) ‘time over-running’. I was therefore forced to pant through my speech with a bright red face and the need to make just one small adjustment when a suit in the front row stepped forward to inform me that I was flying low. Silver lining: I was never asked to speak at a conference again.
And that’s kind of how I feel about Mexican food.
Being married to a cowboy, I frequent Dallas (the city not the TV show) quite regularly. It is there that I most often have Mexican food foisted upon me. Tex-Mex, in fact – best not libel and entire country I’ve never been to. My first experience of this cuisine was Taco Bell, which, like Kopi Luwak, has first been passed through the bowels of a cat. But in the same way that I wouldn’t judge Umami Burger by the cows’ eyebrows served in most fast-food joints, I’ve bravely ventured on to sample fare in more salubrious eateries. The most recent of these was El Fenix (http://elfenix.com/) in the schmancy district of Oak Cliff.
What I have discovered my friends of a friend, is that every single Tex Mex dish comprises yellow or white carbohydrates accompanied by orange, brown or orangey-brown mush. Minuscule dashes of green can occasionally be found, in the form of mush. It’s basically like baby food, but only if you would let your baby eat lard-soaked scrapings off an abattoir floor. And even though it all tastes exactly the same, each dish randomly has the potential to induce a brain haemorrhage through the medium of inexplicably bland spice. It’s like playing beer-pong with your intestines. Mex-Pong. Although as I say, I’ve never been there.
El Fenix didn’t disappoint. It might have done, had I any expectations whatsoever, but I’ve eaten enough of the stuff to recognise the futility in that. Instead, it added fuel to my argument that we should always eat somewhere not Tex Mex (also futile). It might have helped to wash it all down with a tall, cool beer but circumstances didn’t allow, so water it was (only because Listerine wasn’t available).
As for the silver lining, it’ll already be obvious to those of you who are pregnant, bulimic, susceptible to the Norovirus, have a parasite living in your stomach or of a weak constitution. It’s really easy to throw up.
$ No idea since Grandma gave us dinner. (I trust she’ll never read this.)
120 East Colorado Boulevard
Tel: +1 214-941-4050