It starts when you’re in the neighborhood for whatever reason, and you see this really attractive human being. Perhaps you know them. Perhaps not. Whichever, you approach this person with the proposition of a joint meal, possibly including but not necessarily requiring alcohol of Mexican descent.
They approve. You come here. Well done.
You arrive. You note the bench-like nook near the bar. Different. Maybe next time. This time you grab a table big enough for just you two and dive in. Sure, there’s some fancy guac. There’s also poblano-cheese nachos and poached lobster in smoked-jalapeño butter sauce. So maybe guac’s not important.
Apologies. Guac is never not important. Didn’t mean that.
Also in there, you’ll have drinks. We’re a little hazy on this, but we see Mexican Firing Squads, which were born in 1937 Mexico City when some wonderful bastard poured varying amounts of tequila, lime juice, grenadine, Angostura bitters and soda into a glass.
Mexican history is delicious.