Last Night We Went to Texas... Roadhouse!

LAST NIGHT WE WENT TO TEXAS..... ROADHOUSE!

Last night we embarked on an audacious odyssey measured in miles, minutes and mild melodrama. We drove the entire fifteen minutes to Plaza Sendero in Central de Abastos. Yes, the mythical land of topes, traffic and gloriettas that seem designed by a drunken Minotaur. And what gastronomic grail demanded such courage and commitment?

Texas Roadhouse.

Yes, the franchise from the very state we fled to avoid the red-hatted hordes and their pretend patriotism. There were exactly two things I loved about Texas. One was the food. The other was the moment I met my lovely bride. Everything else deserved a polite but permanent pass.

The heat? Pass.

The humidity? Pass.

The sidearm-slinging suburban commandos swaggering into Safeway as if Stone Oak had suddenly morphed into Compton? Double pass.

The giant pickup trucks driven by men broadcasting their insecurities so loudly that the word “compensator” practically pirouettes across your mind? Hard pass.

And the drivers? Good grief. I never thought I would one day praise Las Vegas drivers. Or California drivers. Yet Texas gifted me this revelation. Texas drivers fall neatly into three categories: Bad, Angry and From Out of Town. The best thing about Texas drivers was that they prepared me for Mexico so well, I find driving here less stressful by comparison.

Intellectual conversation? That was an exercise in emotional yoga. I would be at our country club, sipping something cold, only to hear a gentleman bless me with this gem of scholarly insight.

“That there Trump is’n right about every damn thing! Them thar Librals should be locked up with the browns, the blacks, the Muslins and such. You know that guy in the White House ain’t actually Biden but some kinda clone, right? So how you doin’ Frederick?”

How was I doing? Practicing self control. Biting my tongue to the point of tasting blood. That’s how.

So no, Texas is not a place I pine for. But the food? Saints preserve us. The food! Texas barbecue could cause additiciton. Texas steaks deserve their own national anthem.

So when my lovely bride announced that a Texas Roadhouse had opened in San Luis, our palates began packing their luggage. The clock started ticking, and eventually we found ourselves perched on a wooden bench to see if the fare was truly “mismo” as back in Texas.

We arrived a little past five. It was packed. At least thirty patrons loitered, lounged and lingered outside. The estimated wait time was forty five minutes, but since we were only two people we might get lucky. No problem. We retreated to the car and watched TV like civilized nomads.

I noticed the outfits. Many were dressed to impress. When you live hundreds of miles from the border, a place serving “authentic” Texas cuisine is practically an exotic dining destination. And for many families, this was the Mexican equivalent of Ruth’s Chris. A splurge meal. A celebratory feast. A month’s salary in rural Mexico.

Within fifteen minutes we were ushered to a two-person booth. A rarity. Kenny Chesney crooned in the background. The menu was identical, even available in English. The legendary bread arrived, slathered in that butter with the faint cinnamon whisper of culinary happiness.

Maria ordered the filet medallions and a Marguerita that as usual, came in a glass bucket.

I briefly considered a steak but Mexico is already a steak lover’s paradise. You know what Mexico does not offer though?

Chicken fried steak. With white gravy.

The beautiful, belt-busting comfort food that explains at least a third of the obesity epidemic in the American South.

Everything tasted exactly like it did in Texas. If not for the fact that the line dancing crew was Mexican and soccer played on the big screen, I could have sworn I was back in San Antonio.

So now, in addition to Rebel Ribs in Plaza San Luis that serves barbecue better than most chains in Texas (except Smokey Mo’s, of course!), we have a new Haven of Nostalgia.

And yes, I can already hear the haters revving their rhetorical engines. The contrarians clutching their pearls because I dared to eat American food in Mexico. I wonder if these same people became equally incensed when we ate Mexican food in the United States. For the record, we also eat sushi, Italian, French and Chinese. Yes, everything from crepes to kung Pao crosses our palates with pleasure! And yes, we probably eat tacos, enchiladas and quesadillas more than anything else.

So hysterics be damned. Our taste buds crave variety. And last night, Texas delivered.

If you want to read about and comment on US vs Mexican politics, come to the Facebook group "Expats, Executives, Immigrants & Escapees in Mexico. Politics are allowed in that group 😃