Day 27: Taquería Linares

Taquería Linares had the misfortune of being reviewed during one of the most frustratingly expensive days in recent memory and, specifically, five minutes after I received my first speeding ticket in five years (and still I hear these sirens). And still I arrived before GyF veteran, Dortch, who I was admittedly racing down Central Ave to meet. Maybe some English major out there can tell me whether or not that qualifies as irony.

According to the front of their menu, Linares is one of six restaurants in a chain called Pollos Asados (literally "Grilled Chicken") that has most of its locations in Georgia and boasts "Making the Best Grilled Chicken for More than Eight Years." Naturally, I went with the chicken. No epiphanies or revelations, but I had to admit is was some pretty good grilled chicken. Oh, I went with the dark meat per waitress recommendation...claro. The rice, beans, and "salad" were nothing to race across town for. Dortch struck out with a "bad" ice tea and a mediocre quesadilla that fell short of the mark mainly due to the fact that the tortilla was thick corn when it clearly should have been thin flour. The two of us were in and out for $13.96 in only slightly more minutes.

However, it still wasn't fast enough to get me to Davidson on time for the Spain v. Germany game, the day's one bright spot. Even taking into consideration Mueller's absence, Germany should not have gotten worked like they did. Whatever...it was glorious. Thierry Henry's comment of Spain that "You can't get the ball off them" has not really rung true until this game. I don't know what the official possession split was, but it looked something like 80/20. If Spain weren't so patient in the box, it could have been 5-0.

The Score: Probably a good place to get a whole grilled chicken or two. However, there are at least three Latin American places within view from Linares' parking lot that I've enjoyed a lot more.

Day 26: Havana Cuban Cuisine

As told by rap's Frederick Douglass, Ghostface Killah:

Killa Bees luncheon crosstown to brunchin'

McColl Center main man Premeaux

slug through the Kevlar in '93 when they tried to bite his stilo

rocked a Panama Optimo, incognito mosquito like

we got Dodgson here sketchy fella made to give 'em Cali hella

rolled one-deep with a cat called Buzzee

whipped his mama white Camry passenger rearview torn off

Rainbow sandals scuzzy

before he ever gone off.

Church Street cruisin for a first taste of Cuban,

Cuisine, Havana, restaurant lookin' mild-mannered

address listed on Trade

in the building down the steps

like my boy still rockin' that high top fade

to Church Street level

only patrons like they own the place

familia at the bar: Netherlands v. Uruguay

young beardo waiters, chinstrap happy, laughy

hit 'em with oil on baguette, sliced the thin way

spittin big props to Uruguay, saying Euros can be racist

Buzzee knew wasn't his place to break it: the blue and white

whiter then most pastries

bicycle to the head like most Maces

Anyways, he selling the shake mango advance like Fandango

"You drink a liquid more quicker, but a shake slower cuz it's thicker."

Boys ordered juices despite it, Rae'll tell it: gotta sell it more sicker.

Lunch menu all $7.95, chinstrap with cap say all the items is live

Blogger take Ropa Vieja to the slaughter, Preemy, "Chunks of Pork" no water

while dudes wait scheming public school sitcom connect the dots

Ben off the wall, Buzzee off the clock

Connect Four board collect the rocks until the orders drop.

As for the Ropa, ain't none dopa

Sweet black beans with rice, peppers, onions, peas

Had 'em shaking in they Wallabees

McGravy for cryin, McGravy for tryin

Patsy Cline 'em for lyin

Need more details? Take you apart, piecemeal.

Pork Chunks a obscene scene, know what I mean?

Man, that's Ben wife's day to day, bring home the green

smile like a breadwinner

DOOM's for sinners

Havana Cuban for no quitters.

Bong bong bong ring the gong

sho' been too long since CT in '93 youngin' with Jurassic Park jammies

dipped into bed for the glow in the dark show, bed sheets, imagination

he was set, them junks never wet, no care alarms is set

Cuban in QC, Pete's down, Havana could be best bet

lunch like what happens after 120 minutes of play

like a highstaker

crushed velvet soul beat breaker

take these raps and buy a pastry, wrapped in paper.

The Score: Cuban food like ziti. (And that's a compliment.)

Day 25: Las Margaritas Mexican Restaurant

We at Goles y Frijoles awoke on the morning after Fourth of July festivities to the familiar sight of our favorite accountant, Swanick, sprawled out on the couch. After crunching the numbers, he realized he was hungry and suggested initiation into this great culinary rite. GyF made a few calculations of our own and accepted. Swan and I rode down Charlotte's perennial nominee for Depressing Highway of the Year (aka Independence Blvd) to find Plans A and B, La Isla Cuba and Las Brazas (once again), closed. Plan C turned out to be Las Margaritas, a spacious and reputable restaurant in an Independence strip mall just on the city side of the Sharon Amity intersection. Fate and Mexican had aligned once again.

The real story of our visit to Las Margaritas was that of the amateur out-ordering the professional. Swan countered my wimpish "water with lemon" drink order with that of a Jumbo Mango Frozen Margarita, a move he claimed to have made in order to avoid the sacrilege of failing to order a margarita at a restaurant called Las Margaritas. Touché. His unassailable logic (and invitation to sample the chilly mango goodness) won me over, and I ordered one of the same, but guava. What I got was most likely guava mixed with strawberry, or perhaps just strawberry--not going to pretend I know what guava tastes like. Whatever the case, it wasn't as good as the mango.

Then, per my advice to eat something he normally wouldn't, Swan ordered Chilaquiles Mexicanas, a selection that our waitress enthusiastically approved. Chilaquiles is a dish Goles y Frijoles has yet avoided, because if done wrong it can be nothing more than corn chips soggy in green sauce. The pro then bypassed the numerous seafood dishes, including four types of ceviche, and the waitress-recommended Camerones con Arroz and Carnitas de Puerco, for the daily special, chicken and spinach enchiladas. Short story: Swan's chilaquiles are the best I've ever tasted, while my enchiladas were merely adequate with too much cheese sauce and not enough spinach. The rice and beans were also a little disappointing.

Insult to injury: Swan, at one point, took a sip of his delicious mango margarita and then went to sample mine in comparison, but not before announcing, "Gotta cleanse the palate" and shoving a forkful of food into his mouth, thereby making him the only man on record to attempt neutralizing unwanted flavor with rice, beans, and sour cream. All this only to concur that my guava and/or strawberry margarita was indeed inferior to his own. All hail the Chosen Swan!

The Score: $5.75 meal, $7.75 margarita says it all for me. But I might feel differently had I ordered the chilaquiles.

Day 24: El Casa Grande

"Rice and Beans on Independence Day"

I lit a sparkler last night, Nadina,

and in an undertone murmured thanks

to George Washington that you were ever my waitress,

Mi camarera.

You delivered to my table a glass of water,
knowingly wearing a slice of
lemon on its brim.
In my mind I worked up the courage to have this dance with you.
Permiso?

You answered in honest silence about Lempira.

I knew not yet your grande was grander than a building's size.

You suggested the Baleada #3.

I longed to boycott
Arizona
for your people.

You spoke of your brother back in Mexico, on the lake
with the tilapia traps,

and I felt the weight of sweet white fish on my molars,
broke an oath I once made to Bourdain:

fish on a Monday.

You brought me the filete relleno, covered in shrimp.
Small, sweet camarones.

I fantasized plagiarizing Lorca for you.

You had to know the avocado wasn't ripe
I would have waited through the lonely restaurant madrugadas, patiently

at this booth

in your section

until it was.

You answered my inquiry
about the creamy seafood sauce

that washed out to meet the edge of my refried beans.

I dreamed of building a wooden ship.
My careful brushstrokes painted the letters of your name on the side in resiny tar:
L A N A D I N A.

You handed me the bill.

I tipped roughly 20%.

After tax.

The Score: Attentive and personal service. Lots of interesting seafood dishes on the Honduran half of the menu; probably best to try them on a Friday or Saturday.

Day 23: Tacos El Nevado

I was experiencing the residual dyspepsia of the gratuitous La Cubana (see Day 22) well into this morning's 4-0 execution of Argentina at the hands of Germany. Argentina's defense hadn't been great this World Cup, but it really hadn't needed to be. Still...wow. I, for one, thought Maradona would've had a few more tricks up his mullet. Or maybe that he would've just gone ahead and shed that fat man suit, subbed himself in for Tevez, and joined beings with Messi to become the supernatural duality that all of Argentina knows is the only force allowing us 2 get through this thing called life. Electric life.

But after that didn't happen, I naturally had a hankering for some Cuban food, a cuisine yet to be explored by the likes of Goles y Frijoles. And because I’m unimaginative and lazy, I decided to make the first foray into Cuban at Cuban Pete’s, a relatively new restaurant next to Book Buyers in Plaza Midwood that I’ve already visited twice. I would tell you about the excellent ropa vieja and decent sandwich I once had, but it's all for naught--a succinct and appreciative note on the door informs would-be patrons that Cuban Pete's short life has already ended. Well, Wallace Stevens was right about a lot of things, and perhaps never more so than when he told us death was the mother of beauty. So I went to look for the flowers in the ashes in the most promising spot: just north of the intersection of Central Ave and Kilborne Dr. Though Linares looked inviting at 1:30 with a full parking lot, I needed something like a quick trio of tacos, so I could book it up to Huntersville for the 2:30 Spain game. Te presento Tacos El Nevado, a little taquería tucked into a short strip next to a small car dealership on the opposite side of the road from Linares.

I entered to find the fewer than ten tables filled, a sight that both eased my guilt for choosing not to dine in and juiced my anticipation for the food. During the time between ordering three tacos to go (beef tongue, chorizo, and chicken) from the teenage girl at the front counter, I was able to soak up the ambiance. While El Nevado seems primarily a taco and torta joint, the menu on the back wall is replete with burritos, quesadillas, soups, hamburgers, and hot dogs (Noooooooo!!). From a poster on the wall and a few of the other menu items, I was able to suss out that El Nevado specializes in Oaxacan food, such as the tlayuda (also spelled "clayuda"), a thin, cripsy tortilla spread with beans, veggies and a variety of meats. I also eyed the numerous bottles of sauce--two different verdes per table!-- in use by the patronage and half regretted ordering to go.

A good 45 minutes later, the tacos (soft corn tortilla...claro) didn't seem like they were much worse for the long drive. Also, like a doting mother, the girls at the counter had tied up two plastic baggies of the green stuff for me...and I hadn't even asked! One was a killer green chile sauce, the other avocado in lime juice. My styrofoam box also contained sliced radishes and a grilled onion and chile. Real vegetables too? A revelation.

Score: If you're the kind of person (bored) who's actually reading this blog, I'd wager a bet that neither you nor anyone you know nor anyone they know has eaten here. Let's change that. Truly a hidden jewel.

Day 22: Taquería Medina

Refreshed by the pummel of Lightning Bolt at the Milestone last night and this morning's surprisingly cool air (and despite the enthralling Brazil team falling to the Netherlands this morning), Goles y Frijoles finally got back to its roots today with an ATLiens-soundtracked cruise up Tryon to Taquería Medina, a truck stationed in the parking lot of what was at one point a bar called Las Risas and certainly the smallest establishment visited up to this point. I was forced to break out the Spanish when asking for a recommendation and after a little banter asked for the Torta Cubana, an order that came the disclaimer, "It's big." At nine dollars, the Cubana is by far the most expensive item on a menu consisting of tacos, tortas, burritos, quesadillas, huaraches, and soups. And for good reason. The sandwich is a behemoth. Even before I opened carryout box, the weight of the plastic bag which held it betrayed the sandwich's prodigious mass like the tremulous bend of a fishing pole announcing a monster at the end of the line. After the box was open, laughter was my first response, followed by the realization that there was no way in hell I'd be able to eat this thing while driving. (That's my left hand on top of half of the largest sandwich I've ever attempted to eat without assistance.)

Once I brought this baby home (after grabbing an essential Pepsi at Segen's), it took me about one quarter of the thing to realize why it wasn't that good. And it's as simple as the list of ingredients, which are: "breaded steak, eggs, sausage, smoked pork, ham, hot dog, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, avocado, mayonnaise, beans, and jalepeños." Really, no spaghetti? C'mon, where's the tuna salad? I thought I ordered mine with peanut butter... In spite of its name, the Torta Cubana can only be described as American in its excess and is further proof that adding hotdogs is never a viable fix to a culinary dilemma.

The Score: Keep it simple or risk doing less with more.

Day 21: Fiesta Maya

Though it's not quite Taiwan (see Day 17), Evan "Eazy-E" Manning deserves some props for coming all the way from Hawaii to be a part of Goles y Frijoles. Evan, you are a good man and will someday make a fine motivational speaker. I've never heard as compelling an argument for moving to South America as yours, especially from someone who's never been.

So, it is only in consideration of the thousands of miles Evan had travelled already that I catered to his convenience this afternoon and met him at Fiesta Maya off Harris Blvd, thereby continuing a recent and unfortunate pattern of visits to restaurants of dubious authenticity and inflated cost. I am not a stranger to Fiesta Maya, having enjoyed eating there on a few occasions a few years ago when Goles y Frijoles alum, Jeffrey, lived around the corner at Davis Lake. But those memories have less to do with eating and more to do with pitchers of Dos Equis Amber (still only $7.95!) anyway.

After middling chips and salsa--only one sauce option, really?--the waiter suggested El Combo from the from the list of house combinations. At $10.25 it was about two dollars more than the rest of the combos but, considering it consists of a chalupa, chile relleno, taco, burrito, rice, and refried beans, a good way to survey quality and get out of fending for dinner later on. It took nearly all of my willpower to restrain myself from asking how El Combo could really be any better than La Superior, La Mejor ("the best"), and La Favorita. However, one potential answer is that El Combo simply isn't any better than its superlatively named counterparts, a claim consistent with the overall quality of El Combo. The taco, the only true bright spot of the three-plate meal, was about as good as crunchy tacos get. And the burrito and enchilada were not bad by any measure, just disappointingly simple, on the some plate, covered in almost-indistinguishably similar sauces, containing only beef and chicken. The real letdown of El Combo, though, were the chalupa and relleno, which also shared a plate. The chalupa was a waste of space, a formless pile of cheese, lettuce, guacamole, and refried beans on a hard corn tortilla. It's the kind of thing I'd recommend to a vegetarian without taste buds. The relleno was equally baffling. Since the verb "rellenar" literally means to "refill" and because every chile relleno I've ever eaten has been just that, a chile pepper gutted and then filled with beef and cheese, I didn't really know what to make of the cheesy pool sitting next to my chalupa. Perhaps a relleno had accidentally fallen in a food processor? We used it as dip for the chips.

To Fiesta Maya's credit, I've never had a bad experience before, and the menu is enormous, impeccably organized, and surely has got some killer entrees hiding in there somewhere. Plus, on one of the walls is a great painting of a pre-Columbian warrior whose name Eazy-E conjectured was Brian the Mayan. So, I'll always have that.

The Score: If you're looking for excitement, avoid the chalupa, relleno, burrito, and enchilada. Or rent Jurassic Park.