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.

Day 20: Taquería La Única (Central Ave location)

The task of assessing Taqueria La Única is much akin to that of critiquing an older brother's basketball skills. It misses the point: of course he's not Kobe, but he still taught you everything you know. That is to say, La Única isn't perfect, but Goles y Frijoles wouldn't exist without it. It was largely the discovery that I could get such good Mexican food within a mile of home at an establishment that seemed to abjure restaurant essentials like atmosphere and advertising so vehemently--check out the faceless exterior above--that prompted me to explore the existence of such places throughout the city.

So, it was only for a sure thing that John, Jordan, and I risked our lives yesterday in the throes of torrential afternoon thunderstorms, flash flooding, and a seemingly un-defoggable front windshield. When we arrived at our sanctuary, starving, soaked by the walk through the tiny parking lot, all three of us bypassed the usual favorites (chorizo tacos and the chicken quesadilla) for the enormous California Burrito, which, for the burrito-challenged out there, merely means you'll be getting your rice and beans inside the tortilla and not on your plate. Though it was served covered in queso sauce--I am much more a fan of cheese on the inside--the burrito's creator was thankfully an opponent of big government because as soon as our plates hit the table, we knew the California Burrito was too big to fail. Typical of La Única dishes, the vegetables in the burrito are not the standard shredded iceberg lettuce and chopped, unripe tomatoes. Rather they are the sauteed onions and peppers usually saved for that unadventurous lot who order fajitas. Curiously egalitarian, yet undeniably delicious.

The Score: You have no excuse not to visit Taquería La Única, especially since Central Ave is only one of a handful of locations in the greater-Charlotte area. (I guess sometimes word of mouth is loud enough, even when filled with burrito.)

Day 19: Taquería Guadalajara

Taquería Guadalajara is another of the Tryon/Sugar Creek cluster of rice and beans slingers, and I decided upon it as my pre-Spain v. Portugal fill up station, but I guess no one else in the universe was feeling my sentiment, because I walked into the former fast food establishment—obvious due to the drive-thru setup of its parking lot—at 1:30 today to find only employees. Despite its name, Guadalajara seems to have something of a pan-Central American menu, offering a lot of the usual suspects, along with a significant number of seafood dishes, such as campechana (a traditional Mexican seafood soup) pictured with claws hanging (desperately?) out of the bowl.

As expected, chips were served, this time with the trio of hot red sauce, hot green, and a jalapeñoed pico de gallo accompanying. Though the initial plan was to grab a couple tacos and bounce, the picture menu thousand-worded me and I ended up ordering a tostada de ceviche, beef tongue taco, and chicken gordita.

Upon biting the first, a couplet sprang forth:

“Of love, I believed, Auden could teach me / About-face: He ne’er wrote of ceviche.”

Perhaps it was merely the today’s deathly humid weather or that it came after so many too hot and too heavy meals or that it arrived on my table after only the exact amount of time it takes to scoop strained ceviche onto to a hard, corn tortilla and slice an avocado on top, but that bite and the ones to follow were without competition the most refreshing in Goles y Frijoles’ short history. For the uninitiated, ceviche is seafood “cooked” by the citric acid in which it marinates. To my knowledge, it is usually eaten as a soup that could contain a variety of garnishes. Like its Italian cold soup cousin, gazpacho, ceviche is fittingly a hot weather staple in much of Latin America. After manhandling my tostada, I gave the cook a big thumbs up, which he, with a knowing glance, reciprocated.

Not to be overshadowed by the tostada, the taco and gordita brought their own. Tongue tacos (“de lengua”) are commonplace on the taquería circuit, and this one was served with just meat, tender and ready to be piled with verde sauce and pico de gallo. Fortunately, the meat’s tenderness allowed circumvention of a tongue taco’s only drawback: being able to feel with your own taste buds the taste buds of the cow you are eating, or, what I like to call “La besa de vaca.” A fine line between pleasure and pain, indeed. Finally, the gordita is not to be confused with the item at Taco Bell with which it shares a moniker, but, rather, a fried tortilla filled with…filling, in this instance, chicken. I found the best way to consume was with a fork, being sure to get a dollop of sour cream and slice of jalapeño on each forkful.

Before tip, my bill was $6.83. Just sayin’.

The Score: A winner! Mix and match for a great value, but don’t leave without trying the tostada de ceviche.

Day 18: 1900 (Elizabeth Ave location)

Today's review is brought to you by the good folks at Restaurant.com, who assisted this Goles y Frijoles visit to 1900 Mexican Grille & Tequila Bar by providing a $25 coupon. ¡Muchas gracias! Their generosity allowed GyF veterans, Christy and Ben, to come too.

The Elizabeth Ave 1900 is a stunningly appointed space on the corner of one of the street's newer edifices. The ceilings are high with ornately decorated tiles and hung with enormous light fixtures. At 1:30 pm, we were one of two parties dining. After nibbling on chips and a very fresh pico de gallo with corn, we brought on a spinach queso dip. Delicious.

In typical form, I could not get a handle on the large menu, asked our Costa Rican waitress for a recommendation, and was basically rebuffed. I ended up getting a beef chile relleno, if only because I hadn't yet eaten one during the previous few weeks. Like most chile rellenos in my past, this one didn't really do much for me. The rice and beans were not my favorite either. My compañeros fared a but better. Christy's Veggie (that's right, it's not Tuesday) Fajitas received a score of "awesome," with particular praise being given to the mushrooms. Ben's Enchiladas Verdes were likewise "a good move" on his part. Ben also provided the insight that his sour cream was "awesome," but then rescinded that statement in favor of the observation that "sour cream in general is awesome." What a critic.

We ended our little lunchtime fiesta with a sopapilla, a large version of the flat, fried pastry covered in cinnamon and cream that often comes gratis at a Mexican restaurant. Though difficult to manage with a fork, ours was the best sopapilla these lips have ever tasted, in no small way due to the scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. After struggling with his first few bites, Ben continued his string of epigrams by voicing the discovery that there is an inverse correlation between one's desire to eat sopapilla and ability to get it in one's mouth. Someone should graph that.

The Score: Great ambiance and well-priced, but hit and miss.

Day 17: La Paz

Goles y Frijoles would like to take this opportunity to big up Matt Nossel and his girlfriend Brenda, who traveled all the way from Taiwan to be a part of this great experiment. (Rory, thanks for riding down from Davidson, I guess.) Only because we had such distinguished guests in tow did I dine somewhat outside my principles at that paragon of hoity toity Latin Amercan food in the QC, South Blvd’s La Paz. Hey, at least we sat at the bar and watched soccer.

In spite of everything that irks me about a place like La Paz (the valet parking, the giant, faux-something wooden doors, the foyer walls covered in “Best of Charlotte” plaques, the overwhelming feeling that the owners could decide on a whim to change the menu to French or Greek or whatever seems trendiest and never miss a beat), at least when you ask for a recommendation, you get one. The bartender was quick to rattle off his favorites: 1) Baja Fish Tacos; 2) Chicken and Spinach “Suizas”. I went with the latter and have no complaints. Good green sauce enchiladas, rice, and black beans—a welcome break from the refried. The menu also features convenient "New" and "Veg" labels on many of the meals and boasts the hilariously named "Basket o' Tacos." Oh, La Paz, you code-switchers, you!

A heads up: Your waiter will ask you if you’d like queso or guacamole in addition to your salsa, but, unlike the red stuff, those two aren’t on the house. My companions found out the hard way: seven dollars for a cup of melted cheese.

The Score: Yeah, La Paz, you’re good…but oh don’t you know it.

Day 16: Las Delicias

Late last night at Elizabeth Billiards, Jimmy, a fellow twenty five year-old male, remarked that he loved being twenty five because you can do anything you want. He's exactly right. And it is indeed awesome. His statement is, of course, not true on a literal level--I have no delusions about my ability to defy gravity, kill someone and avoid culpability, or play professional basketball. Rather, what he meant was that I could conceivably do something get up late in the morning and decide that I want to eat a whole bunch of pastries instead of normal lunch food, while sitting on my couch and watching soccer on TV. Who is going to tell me I can't? Coincidentally, that's exactly what I did today.

Las Delicias is a cake shop and pastelería on Central Ave, located in the strip mall just before Landmark Diner. If you're there for pastries, grab a tray and a pair of plastic tongs from underneath the cases on your right and go to work. Then bring your tray up to the counter where your bill will be tallied and your sundries bagged. (It took me about ten minutes to figure this out.) With a little help from the tiny woman at the counter, I selected a trenza, a pineapple empanada, a churro, and a slice of cheesecake. Then, to make it a more balanced meal, I added a two more empanadas, one ham and cheese, the other chicken. All this cost only about eight bucks, and the woman even let me use a credit card in spite of the $10 minimum.

The winners of this group were the trenza and pineapple empanada. The former is a dark pastry with raisins, probably made in a pan and cut into large blocks. It's the sort of thing Entenmann's does, except with about three times less sugar. The latter is a sweet empanada with fruit filling. If you don't know what an empanada is, live a little or see Day 9. The churro (a long, thin piece of fried dough covered in sugar) was tasty enough and filled with something akin to dulce de leche, but churros were never my thing anyway. Thumbs down on the cheesecake: dry, light, and bready.

The "real food" empanadas were at least an improvement over Pollos Mario, but I have yet to taste one that ranks with those of Buenos Aires.

The Score: Like any sweets, these are good in moderation. (Yes, even if you're 25.)

Day 15: El Pulgarcito de América

Day 14: Phat Burrito

South End's Phat Burrito is an institution in the Queen City--and for good reason. As its name indicates, the corner eatery has been making deliciously plump burritos since the days when the word "phat" was acceptable slang. On the inside, PB is set up to do one thing well: make burritos, tacos, quesadillas fast and fresh to order for the uptown Charlotte lunch crowd. A handful of small tables make way for the line of customers that moves from the front to back door. The walls are adorned with eclectic designs and a number of "Best Burrito" plaques bestowed by local publications.

So, finding myself hungry and unadventurous after a few IPAs in the courtyard of Common Market 2 yesterday evening, I moseyed across the the street for relief. Though, at a mere $6.50, the burritos are certainly the reason hit this place up, I opted for a more-managable trio of soft tacos: fish, BBQ chicken, and steak. Obviously neither Phat Burrito nor I were hung up on authenticity, and thank God for that. The mango on the fish taco is certainly not something I've come across at a taqueria on Central Ave or farther down South Blvd, but at the moment it made the taco the most gratifying thing I've eaten in weeks. As for the BBQ chicken...was sacrilege always this delicious? Another plus: you can get a side of chips and salsa to go for a dollar even!

The Score: Phat Burrito, you do what you do, and you do it well.

Day 13: Machu Picchu

Think about World Cups eight, twelve years from now and how many Americans will refer back to Donovan’s goal as the moment they started caring about soccer. Magical:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k29wBfLmNP0

And on those good vibes, I coasted into Machu Picchu Restaurant on Indpendence, one of an impressive three Peruvian joints in our fair city. By the time my dining partner (Brittany, Spanish teacher fenomonál and veteran from Goles y Frijoles Day 1) arrived, I had already been befriended by three Mexicans and a Nicaraguan who were cheering on Germany as they struggled to score against Ghana and had managed to unwittingly order the lunch special of the day. (I was later able to pun "Ghana" and "gana," the Spanish word for "wins" to the delight of the whole table, if anyone's keeping score of that.) Thankfully, the special offered another much-needed respite from the heavy Mexican entrees that have been ravaging my stomach as of late. It started with a tasty vegetable and beef soup whose ample veggies made up for the fatty beef. However, the soup's main selling point has to be what I initially thought were its dense, almost chewy potatoes. However, they were more likely yuca, also known as cassava, a native South American root. The main course of the special was a $5.50 (!) heaping plate of Arroz Chaufa Pollo, a simple chicken fried rice with scallions and peppers. As Brittany pointed out, it's the kind of dish Americans would be quick to drown in any kind of sauce, whether it be hot, soy, or duck. We took our cue from our four friends up the table, though, and ate it straight. I, for one, had no bones about enjoying the lighter side this time around.

In addition to boasting a menu replete with unique seafood and rotisserie offerings, Machu Picchu also fancies itself a panadería, so on the way out I scooped a sandwich cookie to go. The proprietor informed us that the caramel in the middle is imported from Peru. As I type this entry, I'm finishing the cookie, and all I can say that if these cookies were allegedly invented to complement un café, a convincing argument for the inverse could certainly be lobbied.

The Score: Even if the food were not as delicious and the clientele so amiable, can you even begin to argue with a $5.50 daily lunch special?

Day 12: El Salvador Restaurant

Without making this entry more medical than culinary, the havoc being wreaked on my gastrointestinal system is very real and bears noting. Perhaps it is the nearly two weeks of daily vegetable-less meals or this weekend’s intimidating troika of Salvadoran, Colombian, and Mexican buffet, but there is now no telling at what moment I will double over in abdominal pain and make haste for porcelain sanctuary. Makes me not want to leave home without a bathroom.

Today I risked it and rode a short distance north to investigate what, according to Google Maps, is a cluster of taquerías near the intersection of Sugar Creek Rd and Tryon. The area did not appear as promising as the Internet had promised, so I went to the place where I thought I’d have the best chances of catching Argentina v. Greece: El Salvador Restaurant. The creatively-named restaurant and bar sits at the back of a parking lot filled with Econovans and other workers’ vehicles, within view from the aforementioned intersection and behind a sign advertising not just Salvadoran but also Mexican and Honduran fare. Inside, a long bar is the center of activity and to the left an empty dance floor waits lonely for the next salsa rave-up.

I took my position at said bar in front of the clearer of the two bulky Magnavoxes to ensure the best possible view of Maradona’s splendid mullet. A giggly barmaid, clearly tickled by the presence of an out-of-place gringo on a dull Tuesday afternoon and perhaps hoping for some fish-out-of-water fun served me chips and (not-spicy-enough) salsa. Her affability at least paid off in a willingness to make recommendations—a quality in waitstaff that has so far during the course of Goles y Frijoles been curiously rare—and I confidently ordered the Chimichanga de Carne per her advice. I would do the same again, as it was way better than the last chimichanga I had, which was in 1994 when I asked my mom at a grocery store what a chimichanga was and she answered by grabbing something out of the Stop & Shop freezer and later heating it for me. El Salvador serves it a little better than I remember: a large, square burrito, fried, packed with steak and melted cheese, covered in white queso sauce. It also came with beans, an above average salad (which for this kind of place means not one but TWO slices of cucumber with your slice of tomato and shredded iceberg lettuce), and what could have been the BEST rice I've had in the last twelve days. If you want a more nuanced rice description, give me $1.79, and I'll tell you about it as I eat another helping.

Oh, and do Snickers taste better in Latin America, or are the ads just funnier? http://www.snickers.com/espanol/ads/spots.html

The Score: Very solid. I wish my stomach had not been punishing me from the night before. Coming back for the pinchos!

Day 11: La Raza Pizza Buffet

I awoke on the first official day of summer from a much-needed but admittedly indulgent four-hour nap at 9:30 pm, fully aware that my proclivity for siesta had jeopardized the integrity of Goles y Frijoles. Could I find a worthy Latin American food establishment open at this time on Monday night? Or, would I have to give in to unadventurous practicality and eat at Cabo Fish Taco? Or would I skip tonight and pay penance by doubling up tomorrow? I decided to at least make the effort and rode out to a particularly fecund (for Mexican food spots) to area of Central Ave. At the corner of Kilborne, my persistence appeared to pay off in the neon juxtaposition of a sign that read “La Raza Pizza Buffet”.

Now, over the course of the past week and change, I have come to accept that my presence in certain establishments will garner some double takes by clientele or quizzical looks shot between restaurant employees. I am often the only non-Latino when dining, a fact that most of the time merely goes to support some vague notion of “authenticity” that I’m chasing. That being noted, I was out of my element tonight.

Upon entering the one-room establishment set up with mismatched buffets serving both pizza and more traditional food and a blaring Telemundo soap, one of the half-dozen possible proprietors approached me and explained that there was no menu before offering that I take some buffet to go. As odd a suggestion as this was, I accepted. However, my new friend did not make a move to provide a styrofoam box or any other approved food conveyance technology, so, in an effort to stay moving and appear casual, I just started pile my plate with yellow rice and ladled onto it what I thought was a stew of sorts but was actually soup. Then, just to prove my control of the situation to anyone who was watching me and correctly deducing that I had both no business eating there and no idea what I was doing, I added a scoop of some chicken and potato dish to my plate of submerged rice. The latter was pretty tasty, though the soup had a discernible seafood taste, despite being composed of red broth, chunks of fat (the dreaded chicharron?), and potatoes. At the salad bar, I eschewed browning iceberg lettuce for a spicy mix of finely-chopped peppers, cabbage, and other fresh veggies. It could have been a garnish along the lines of pico de gallo, I suppose.

To my semi-surprise and great relief, I found that La Raza accepts credit card, but not before imagining explaining my lack of cash and leaving some form of collateral to adventure out into the neighborhood to locate an ATM. Thankfully, it did not come to that. Interestingly, the receipt reads that I paid $8.75 to Joyeria El Tesoro 2 on South Blvd. Go figure.

The Score: Try the pizza?

Day 9: Pollos Mario

Goles y Frijoles rolled deep today. In addition to GyF veteran, John, we added Jeff “Eyes Bigger than Stomach” McVean and salad enthusiast, Dana. After an unsuccessful search for Congas Cuban Café, we settled on Pollos Mario, a Colombian restaurant on Albemarle reputed to be the best in the city. The four of us sat at an enormous, round wooden table and started with an order of empanadas. Though I expected something along the lines of the folded flour pastries that kept me alive last summer in Buenos Aires, these chicken and beef empanadas were disappointingly fried and heavy. At least Marios served them with a very spicy, very fresh green salsa with the consistency of gazpacho.

For my main thang, I ordered Bistec a Caballo, which describes not the source of the steak—it’s cow, not horsemeat—but the way in which the two fried eggs perch atop the meat like an ambivalent rider. The plate also includes cassava, potatoes, and roasted red peppers in a sweet sauce. The only problem with the meal, a problem that seems typical of Americans eating asada all over, is that a Latin American “steak”—those of Argentine beef being one major exception—is simply not of the same quality or quantity of beef as what we expect here in the United States.

Jeff faced the same problem with Mario’s Special Platter, basically a bandeja paisa (see Day 1) with roasted chicken, which in his opinion, turned out to be the dish’s only redeeming element. Dana fared a little better with the Churrasco Mario, a sirloin steak served with beans, white rice, avocado, and aveja. Of course, Dana did not start into the churrasco without a salad, however, a disappointing one covered in flavorless peas and a dressing that our hero described as both “thinner than water” and “like cereal water with a hint of Italian dressing.” Unfortunately, such comments went to negate any culinary expertise possibly ascribed to their utterer, as they betrayed the fact that Dana pours water on his cereal when out of milk and, apparently, ethanol, when out of water.

John kept it real with Arroz con Pollo and then proceeded to break with his rapper forbears. No appetite for destruction. Didn’t scrape the plate.

Score: Pollos Mario seems to do what they do well. Yet, I’m beginning to suspect I just don’t really care for Colombian food. Also, with a name like Pollos, where’s all the chicken?

Day 8: Cuzcatlán Restaurante

John and I cruised down Central Ave at mid-afternoon on what surely was the hottest day of the year so far and ended up in a shopping center just past the intersection of Rosehaven Dr that boasted an incredible FIVE Latin American food establishments. We chose the one with signs reading “Pan Salvadoreño” and “Pupusería” but whose name is actually Cuzcatlán, after a pre-Colombian nation contained in present-day El Salvador. But enough history and more food. Seconds after opening the large menus, John and I realized we would be ordering breakfast because…well, how often can you not eat Salvadoran breakfast when you have the opportunity to order it at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon.

Though we got the food to go (more rule bending), Cuzcatlán was in no hurry delivering it, thereby giving us time to soak up what atmosphere the place had to offer. John and I spent most of the time discussing the presence of a thin man in fedora and green leisure pants who bore striking resemblance to The Greek from the second season of The Wire and who paid for a nearly fifty dollar tab before manning a party van in the parking lot by getting in on the passenger side and then sliding across the bench seat. Soccer played on a small television. Enrique Iglesias blasted from the jukebox. The very cordial owner made small talk with us, despite our rusty Spanish.

While it’s hard to compare breakfast food to lunch or dinner and despite the fact that breakfast is already, in my opinion, easily the best meal to eat out, Cuzcatlán’s Desayuno Santaneco might have been the most enjoyable meal I have yet consumed during the course of Goles y Frijoles. Back in my living room, I opened the Styrofoam box to reveal scrambled eggs, sausage, beans, plantains, slices of avocado, sour cream, and hearty corn tortillas. All of the ingredients know their roles and played them well, but the real key to the transcendence of the breakfast burritos I ended up constructing was the complementary nature of the plantains and tortillas. Like all great duos, the players in this one temper the other’s shortcomings and enhance its virtue. Individually, the tortillas could be mistaken for bland (to American mouths) and the plantains found overwhelmingly sweet. Together, though, it’s like Phife and Tip pouring syrup on their pancakes.

The Score: Reserve judgment for lunch or dinner. Break fast to break fast here.

Day 7: Azteca (Harris Blvd location)

Sadly, the integrity of Goles y Frijoles may have been partially compromised on this one. First of all, Azteca is a chain restaurant, albeit with only of two other locations in Charlotte and (possibly) one in Gastonia. Second, I was forced to eat there for dinner instead of lunch due to a midday tee time. (Thanks for nothing, Dad. Except paying for golf. Thanks for that.) Finally, I will admit to having eaten at this very Azteca before, though it was probably as far back as high school.

All that aside, Azteca is pretty much what you’d expect from a large Mexican restaurant successful enough able to support four locations. The menu is extensive, if not particularly interesting. The service is impeccable; the chips and salsa got to the table before my friend John and I even sat down. The two classic entrees we ordered, steak fajitas and enchiladas verdes, were in no way disappointing or at all different from what we imagined they would be.

To Azteca’s credit, the large waitstaff was looking particularly dapper, decked out in matching Mexico jerseys. When I inquired of a passing waitress about the result of the day’s game, she matter-of-factly stated, “Two…Mexico. Zero…France,” which has to be the most convoluted and comical way a sports score has ever been stated. Oh, Azteca, you’ll find some personality yet.

The Score: You already know what it is.

Day 6: Maria's Mexican Restaurant

Did Maria’s even stand a chance?

All of Plaza Midwood awoke this morning, powerless in the grip of not a functional light switch, sweaty on top of the sheets, sleep deprived. Them afternoon stormings. At the unlikeliness of a planned 7:30 am “Honduras in the World Cup” party actually happening (ahem…Christy), I rolled over until getting over to Sanctuary in NoDa to catch the second half of what should have been Spain putting holes in the Swiss and grab a coffee. Suffice it to say I defeatedly rocked my sweaty David Villa jersey the rest of the day.

Christy was down to ride for some Linares, but I was afraid that the Central Ave would still be sans electricity as it was last night. So, we redirected for Roasting Company, a “Costa Rican-inspired” lunch place off Park Road. Roasting Co, you beckoned to me with your chicken in a hat logo and then betrayed me with your cafeteria-style line and absence of chips and salsa. We left almost immediately upon entry and set sail for South Blvd.

Maria’s Mexican Restaurant seemed as good a choice as any. (It wasn’t.) Christy and I both ordered the lunch special, a “burro.” Following the logic of Spanish grammar in which the suffixes “–ito” and “–ita” denote smallness (as in the sentence, “Buzzee, if you don’t quit whipping yo mama’s Camry like a driver’s ed Chevy Cobalt this momentito, I’m going to roll down the window and vomit all over the remains of your passenger side mirror”), we expected larger-than-average burritos. Or a donkey. We curiously received smaller-than-average burritos of middling quality with refried beans and very orange (but, disappointingly, not orange-flavored) rice. Maria’s saving grace was the pineapple juice. Nice and pulpy, just how I like it.

The Score: Rough food after a rough night.

Day 5: Carnitas Guanajuato

Okay, I’d like to start out this one by giving a big "Porque?” to the owners of Brazas Brazilian Grill on Independence. Check this out: 1) You own one of maybe three Brazilian places in Charlotte; 2) It’s the World Cup! 3) You’re obviously in it, and, again, obviously, you’ve got good odds to win; 4) It’s 2:30 on your first game day, and the Brazil game is on; 6) You’re closed after lunch until dinner hours!!! 7) I’ll see you later in the month.

So, high school drama queen and Goles y Frijoles newbie, Dortch, and I walked to the Mexican place I had passed in the parking lot, Carnitas Guanajuato. I’m guessing Guanajuato is a region of Mexico. [Ed: ?] Only gringos in the place—always a good sign. We were seated by the man destined to be our waiter from the beginning of time, a tall Mexican with an implication of a moustache on his upper lip and a tenuous grasp of English so comical Dortch and I initially thought we were the victims of a hidden camera show, i.e.:

Dortch: “I’ll have a margarita.”

Waiter: “Water?”

We soon found out that Carnitas doesn’t serve liquor and started in on the Coronas, but not before getting hit up with chips and a record four condiments: two salsas, hot sauce, and pico de gallo. Now, I’m aware of the hyperbole with which yesterday’s green salsa was described when I tell you that Carnitas’ bests it. If Taqueria Mexico’s was a ten, this so-thick-it’s-nearly-spreadable verde goes to eleven.

Back to the star of the show:

Me (in Spanish): “What’s the best thing on the menu?”

Waiter (in English): “Many things are very well. But for this moment…una torta…de cabeza.

So, kids, that’s the story of how your grandpa came to eat a cow’s head sandwich. And the waiter was right! At that moment in time, a Monday, watching a 2:30 pm World Cup game, I couldn’t have imagined a better means of delighting taste buds and filling stomach. It’s as if philly cheese steaks actually lived up to the hype awarded them. Such is the essence of a Carnitas Guanajuato torta.

I’ll be back because, in the words of our waiter, “Next time, I invite you tacos.”

The Score: Mexcellent

Day 4: Taquería Mexico

Making my way from 485, north along South Blvd after my last, last day of work for the already humid as huevos summer, I was feeling more famished than enterprising and decided to eat at the first Latin American restaurant I saw. Taqueria Mexico was it.

At 2:45, I was one of about eight customers in the small, dimly-lit taqueria and was seated and salsa-ed immediately. The chips were a bit on the stale side (whatever), but Mexico really came through in the salsa department. The requisite mini-carafe of red was fresh, if a little mild, but it was served with a bowl of house hot sauce to liven things up. The real discovery, though, was the green salsa, which was simply out-of-control delicious, hair-on-haircut-day fresh, and with the perfect amount of kick for my mouth boots.

Though the menu was varied and extensive, including fourteen seafood and seven vegetarian dishes, I fell back on my old standby query when the waitress returned to the young man alone in his booth, shamelessly palming chips and verde into his face:

“What’s the best thing on the menu?”

(Looking flattered.) “Number one, carnitas.”

“I guess that’s why it’s number one.”

(Delayed courtesy laugh.) “Would you like flour or corn tortillas.”

“Decide for me.”

Perhaps the waitress has recently taken to reading Omnivore’s Dilemma when things get slow or maybe she guessed this gringo didn’t look authentic enough for corn. No matter because when I packed those flour tortillas full of fried pork tips, rice, beans, guac, etc. and poured on the green, new heights (depths?) of dankness were achieved...to the rejoicing of all. The pork carnitas were spot on: tender enough to fall off the bone if there had been one, but browned to a crisp on the outside. While constructing this tortilla full of the good, I couldn't help but revisit one of life's most profound questions. That is, when wrapping up Mexican fixings in a flour tortilla, at what point does the wrap cease to be a soft taco and become burrito? Must the end of the tortilla be folded snugly back on itself? Must the two sides of the tortilla join and stay joined? Is it not a burrito until baked or fried? Are peppers and and onions necessary to achieve fajita-dom? Such similar constitution, such a variance of titles!

The Score: I filled my belly for 10 bucks in about twice as many minutes. Big up yourself, Taquería Mexico, you do it right!

Day 3: Lempira Restaurante

Lempira does it big. Big menus. Big portions. Lots of tables. Lots of people filling those tables. A big waitstaff catering to those people. Since reviewing such a place is, therefore, a big task—but mostly because dining at Lempira was admittedly the fruition of much enthusiastic goading by art teacher/media-Hondureña/intermittent vegetarian, Christy—it only makes sense to do like I did with my Tajadas con Pollo and cut this baby in two.

Me

Lempira Restaurante is located just south of the Tyvola intersection on South Blvd, a half-Honduran/half-Mexican jewel among a glut of Latin American eateries on this stretch of road. If regular visits to Manifest are or were an integral part of your life, as they were once mine, you may have passed this place myriad times without taking notice. It's okay; regret is served best with lots of plantains.

And, as anyone who has ever been so unlucky as to dine out with me knows, I am best served when I have someone making food decisions on my behalf. Fortunately, Christy was willing to play carnivore vicariously and started me off with a giant bottle of banana soda and Baleada #3. Baleadas are wheat tortillas filled with mashed beans, cheese, and a variation of the other usual suspects. The #3 came with steak, cheese, beans, sour cream, and avocado. The name of this delight must share a root word with Balearic because eating it was like a beachside rave in my mouth.

On to the main course. Christy later revealed via High Fidelity-style top five list that Lempira’s Tajadas con Pollo is her all-time number one favorite Latin American meal. How could I refuse those auspices? A thousand words:

The Score: The bar has been set.

Christy

[Ed. - Missed deadlines can result in exclusion from future Goles y Frijoles activities.]

Day 2: Three Amigos Mexican Grill and Cantina

If you’ve never heard that enchiladas are the best resaca food, it’s because they’re not. Not even close. Still, I chose to power through a visit to Three Amigos (formerly La Casa de las Enchiladas) because of its proximity to my own casa and the recommendation of foodie and soccer enthusiast, Tom, who I can credit for introducing me to the bourgeois delights known as caperberries.

Three Amigos is located on the left side of Central Ave out towards Eastway, just past my go-to, Taqueria La Unica. The skinny on Three Amigos is that if it’s called “enchilada” they can serve it to you. This is particularly impressive, considering how greatly what constitutes an enchilada varies between Mexico and, say, Costa Rica. So, after I plopped myself down on a stool at the small bar, it took thankfully little brain activity for me to determine that what I needed was a big glass of water and the Enchiladas Mixtas, a sample of four house favorites. Before my meal arrived I snacked on over-seasoned tortilla chips and mild-but-fresh salsa, while coming to the conclusion that I was not moving one inch until the conclusion of the USA v. England game which had yet to start. Of course the enchiladas were awesome, though of the Entomatadas, Poblanas, Verdes, and Jalisciences, I’d give the edge to the Poblanas due to a killer mole sauce. And, while the Entomatadas and Verdes seemed to these taste buds as nothing more that your typical (and typically awesome) red and green sauce enchiladas, Jalisciences get their name from the Jalisco region of Mexico and feature a slightly tangier, tomato-based salsa. The plate was covered by a thin steak which I initially found incredibly flavorful but later realized was just incredibly salty.

As for the game, what can I say? Like Alexi Lalas noted, Green shouldn’t have missed the ball, and they’re better than America, but England still didn’t look that good. And I’m certainly glad I stayed where I was instead of heading to another bar where I would have inevitablly watched the game with people like me who make a rather forced effort to exaggerate their interest in soccer at peculiar four-year intervals. At Amigos, I chilled with the waitstaff, sipped 7 oz. Coronitas, and laughed with them at the part of the Nike commercial when Homer Simpson goes, “Ronal-DOH!”

Day 1: Delicias Colombianas

Though I had planned to approach the month’s proceedings with a pure palate and psyche, I entered Friday experiencing the residual effects of already having eaten Mexican every day of the week (including a breakfast burrito that morning) and the number of PBRs it takes me to duet Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” to a completely empty room, save my singing partner, one committed friend, and a very gracious karaoke jockey (KJ?). O, cruel Fate!

Therefore, it came as relief and elation to break from Mexican fare and go, accompanied by two Spanish teachers, one a Colombiana, to Pineville's Las Delicias.

At least in its visage, this place epitomizes the kind of establishment I seek to frequent over the next month. Delicias shares space in a short stripmall on South Blvd. with a European grocery and T & A Lingerie. (Qué rima!) Inside, the walls are plastered with the kind of posters that adorn every high school Spanish classroom in America: big faded shots of Bogotá that were likely distributed in the late 1970s by Colombia’s Department of Commerce in efforts to encourage trade and tourism. A television mounted in the corner blared the voices of two Mexican gossip personalities discussing the results of Mexico’s 1-1 draw with South Africa. Behind the counter is a rack of baked goods including buñuelos that appeared to be larger, unsugared versions of those served with hot chocolate syrup in Spain.

Following pleasantries with our very amiable waitress, our leader, Marta, started us with a round of juices. After being tempted by maracuya, tomate de arbol, and mora (yellow passion fruit, sweet tomato, and blackberry, respectively), all of which can be ordered in a base of milk or water, I ended up with a glass of guanabana con leche. Unfortunately, there is no translation for guanábana; it’s simply a tropical fruit we don’t have here. The beverage was white and frothy, with a subtle fruit taste along the lines of a coconut confection or Spanish horchata.

For the main course, I was unable to resist Bandeja Paisa, which on the menu is followed with the tagline “Most traditional Colombian recipe,” despite the fact that I would like to question whether varying degrees of traditionality is actually a defensible concept. I didn’t bring it up to the waitress but later wondered how many virgins had to pass through fire in order to make my meal possible. The Bendeja Paisa is basically a platter of food representative of the Paisa region of Colombia, and most of the plate seems like it would be comfort food to people all over Central and South America. The carne asada, rice, beans, and chorizo were all pretty standard. Of course, the half an avocado and fried egg on top are always a nice touch. Unfortunately, the two elements of of the platter with which I was unacquainted didn’t do much for me. First, the arepa, basically a bland cornmeal disc, tasted like a bland cornmeal disc. Apparently, as Marta instructed me all too late, I was supposed to break it up and spread it throughout the platter, thereby infusing the food around the arepa with cornmealy blandness. But she also told me that arepas come in all sorts of varieties, so I will be back on that horse if that is indeed an idiom. Second, the chicharrón was about as appetizing as the fried pig skin and attendant fat that it is. Marta told me to remove the skin from the fat and eat the former, a task I found close to impossible and entirely unrewarding. Actually, if I had to choose between skin and fat, I’d choose the latter, which was reminiscent of the fried part of fried chicken, only much denser.

Score: A draw. I’ll be back to get my juice on, try some pastries, and get what Marta got. Big surprise that Brittany and I got out-ordered by a Colombian at a Colombian restaurant.