Hola Cinco!
And then there are just the loveliest times to be had in Vegas. Of course you have to wade through the shit, in this case, the nastiest fake cheese you have ever encountered in all your movie nachos and Kraft singles and Velvita squirt cheese life. Yes, the “cheese” in the quesedillas at Jimmy Buffet’s Margartitaville is in a league all its own when it comes to nastiness. The texture alone is enough to make you puke up the reasonably tasting, if not priced, margarita, and then the taste hits you. When you long for Taco Bell cheese, something is seriously rotten in the state of Margaritaville. But, I suppose it serves me right, going there on Cinco de Mayo when there is so much good Mexican food to be found just off Charleston.
My personal favorite place is the counter at Los Compadres Meat Market at Charleston and Maryland. I don’t know (nor do I particularily care to know) what they do to that meat, but holy hell is it ever good. And the salsa. Oh dear lord, I weep over that salsa. Crack salsa. Ease into it gringo. It’s too spicy for you. But man is it ever good. And a cheap way to drain out the sinuses.
In my defense, the reason I didn’t go to Los Compadres was because they don’t serve alcohol at the counter. And, after a cursory google search of Cinco festivities in Vegas, I came up empty. So, the Jimmy Buffet debacle seemed like a reasonably good choice at the outset- outside, not too expensive, blah, blah, blah, as Social Distortion would say out: I was wrong.
But then, luckily, as I was heading home with heavy heart and light tummy, I got a text to meet a friend at Downtown Cocktail Room. Never one to turn down a beverage, I headed to Fremont and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a huge street fair packed to the gills with Mexicans with savory meats, cheap and icy flavored margaritas and that awesome grilled corn on the cob! It’s not at all like New England corn on the cob, it’s a whole different taste sensation, a surprisingly creamy texture.
I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that on the morning’s local NPR, a pompous commentator (who probably works for the Smith Center in his off time) had bloviated at length about how Cinco de Mayo was a stupid gringo holiday that no Mexican would be seen enjoying. That Vegas used it as an excuse to get drunk (obviously this man is new to town, we don’t need a fucking excuse to get drunk, thank you very much. It is, as George Hamilton would say “It’s what we do.”) and that we would not see any happy Mexicans today.
Boy can he go shove it.
Once again I was reminded why Fremont, in this case, just past the experience, but before it gets super funky near the Bunkhouse, is where you want to be.
And then, just when I thought between the dollar tacos and the little kids singing pop song karaoke next to the bounce house (god I love the bounce house) life couldn’t get any better, I sat down in the DCR and ordered myself a Kentucky cappuccino, bitched with the bartender about how all the good ideas start downtown before they get snatched by the Strip (hello roller derby, percussion circles, fire breathing freaks, and absinthe), and moaned with my friend about how no one had thought to mention this street fair on any website, periodical, or radio station.
It was so good, I almost forgot to write my strongly worded letter to Margaritaville. Almost.
