Upon finishing the last meeting of two days worth, I was in the mood to celebrate. Hurrying out the door, I made the mistake of asking the moronic hayseeds I was there to school if they could recommend a good restaurant.
“If you like Mexican, there’s Pedro’s up the road,” came the reply.
Indeed I do like Mexican. Pork tamales, black beans and chorizo, and a flight of top-shelf tequila sounded like an excellent way to celebrate my imminent departure from Wisconsin. Pedro’s it was.
In fact, the thought of leaving the great cheese state was so exhilarating that I sort of forgot I was still there. Mexican food in Milwaukee? In hindsight, probably not the smartest choice I made this trip. Of course, like any bad decision or bad relationship, when you look back it is always a bit startling to see the flashing lights and warning sirens that you inexplicably missed the first time around.
Entering Pedro’s, my first impression was that the place was too brightly lit. Not bright as in a light and airy mood, but bright as in they got a great deal on 120 watt bulbs that “fell off” a Sam’s Club delivery truck. Even with plate glass windows covering two of the four exterior walls, the sickly luminescence gave you the feel of an underground interrogation room. Still, I was tired and hungry, and reasoned that the food must be good because they wouldn’t dare serve shitty Mexican under such searing and unforgiving lights.
A disaffected hostess asked, “How many?” and replied, “Follow me” without every making eye contact. On the way to my table, I noticed a row of games and vending machines in the lobby. This is never a good sign. The presence of video games usually means that the restaurant is desperately trying to supplement its dying food business by catering to children and squeezing them for every quarter. Not only will the food likely be bad, it will also be smeared and caked into every crevice of your booth, the flooring, the window panes and the ceiling tiles, not to mention the curious presence of nomadic Cheerios which aren’t anywhere on the fucking menu.
The restaurant was nearly empty, save for a large table of twenty-something girls that had clearly been exploiting the “Half-Price Margaritas on Thursday” special and a couple of behemoths whose measure of restaurant food quality was entirely a function of the quantity served. I was beginning to suspect the worst and considering flight, but then I was promptly greeted with a basket of tortilla chips.
(To me, tortilla chips are as enjoyable as a lazy, expressive cliché that is on crack, is on steroids, is from Hell, and that makes you throw up in your mouth a little. I’ll eat tortilla chips until my back hurts, and then lay down on a hard surface until I fish out every last crumb. Me likey, is what I’m trying to say.)
Crunching away on fistfuls of chips, I looked over and noticed a neon sign that said, “El Patio,” which, after asking, I learned is Spanish for “The Patio.” It filled me with rage, and I immediately hated Pedro and anyone that had ever patronized his excessively incandescent establishment. Had I seen this sign when I first entered, I would have punched the hostess in her unaffected face (she wouldn’t have seen it coming). As it was, though, there were tortilla chips to eat. However, I decided that if the menu was titled “El Menu” or the restrooms labeled “El Restroom,” I would vow to execute Pedro’s every living relation.
Just then the waiter approached. He was middle-aged and appeared to be of Latin descent. This gave me some hope. I mean, Mexicans in Milwaukee must be rare, and if I had found the restaurant where they work, well it must be some kind of endorsement, right? He asked if he could get me something to drink.
“What beers do you have on tap?”
“Oh,” he replied without an accent, “mostly the usual stuff.”
All at once the retorts blistered through my mind.
“That’s helpful. You, sir, are an excellent waiter!”
“Sounds good, I’ll take it.”
“Great. My usual is Young’s Double Chocolate Stout garnished with a hooker’s severed finger. It’s usually hard to find, but thankfully not here at Pedro’s!”
Fortunately my brain did the math before my mouth opened, and I figured there was another basket of chips with my name on it if I played my cards right.
“Hmm,” I squeaked out, “Do you have any dark beer?”
“Yes, we do. It’s…um…um…”
“Modelo Negro?” I helped, offering the most obvious choice.
“That’s the one!”
Knowing I probably wouldn’t get another chance, I ordered two with a glass, barely stopping myself short of requesting a clean one, if that was even possible. As he turned, I quickly stopped him.
“I’m ready to order, too, if that’s OK.”
“You bet,” he replied. If nothing else, and so far there was nothing else, the guy seemed cheery.
“I’m torn between the fish tacos and the pork tamales. Which would you recommend?”
“I would say the burrito platter. It is the most food.”
“Um, yeah. I’m not really interested in the most food. But say, what about the fish tacos?”
He shook his head. “Not so good,”
“Okey dokey. What about…hmm…the pork tamales?”
“It’s not very popular.”
“Right, but is it good. Do you like them?”
“Yes, they are good, but the burrito platter is more popular.”
“Gotcha. I think I have the tamales then.”
“With mild sauce?” he recommended.
Jesus. Clearly it was time for my good if mildly brain-damaged Mexican friend to learn that I was no novice white boy from Milwaukee who confuses Taco Bell as food and needs a thorough explanation of the mole sauce and instruction on how to pronounce it correctly. I am a well-traveled man of the world, tolerant and well-versed in all things and damn near kin to his south-of-the-border culture. A bold statement was needed.
“No, no,” I protested too much. “I like it spicy. Gimme your hottest sauce. ”
“It’s very hot. Are you sure?”
“Ha ha! Of course,” I laughed, and dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand.
Eventually my food arrived. As it turned out, my insecure need to impress ethnic waiters (and damn near everyone else for that matter) paid off this time. The tamales were total crap. Fortunately, one effective way to maneuver though an awful meal is to devastate your taste buds with pepper sauce.
A few hours later, as my white-knuckles were firmed latched onto handicap-assistance bar mounted on the wall next to my hotel room commode, I began to wonder if my waiter wasn’t actually Mexican at all, but rather Aztec. A direct descendent of Montezuma, I suspect.
P.S. Most of this post was written as I sat waiting for my bill to arrive.
