It was almost like they didn't want a "certain kind" of clientele.
We walk into the restaurant and the first thing I notice is the volume. It is very loud in here. A round table of six boisterous fucktards dominates the center of the room. They are very animated and very loud. This does not bode well.
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Please put us far away from them, I mentally beg the hostess. She puts us in the corner, but that's not good enough. In order to avoid these shit heads, you must be in another
The three of us sit down and gingerly take our menus from the hostess.
I look at Larry. I look at David. I look at the Fucks of the Round Table.
David doesn't want to be there. I know it. I don't want to be there. I look at Larry. What will he say?
"Do you wanna leave?" I ask. This is more of a rhetorical question, because the answer is obvious, so when he doesn't say anything and just opens his menu, I know that we are doomed. I would rather cook a meal for three hundred than stay here.
"Is there another room in the back?" asks David.
"No. I'm sure this is the only one," I say with authority. After all, I've been here three times. Surely I'd have noticed.
I look at the table of six and size them up. Okay, there are drinks and empty food plates, which means that they might be leaving soon. There are also margarita glasses which tells me that they are idiots. You should never order a mixed drink at a restaurant. It's bound to be watered-down or made with cheaper alcohol.
I scan the menu for something low-carb, but the noise level is so distracting that I can't concentrate. Where's a falling crane when you need one?
"Do you want to leave?" I ask Larry, hoping he has changed his mind.
Time stands still as Larry weighs the option, then, says, cheerfully, "Nope. We're staying."
I'll pack my bags tonight, then.
A bowl of chips and salsa lands on the table. I stare at the chips, knowing that they are forbidden in Phase 1 of the South Beach diet. How would it look if I just spooned some of the salsa on my plate?
I try to read the menu, but, again, screaming hyenas take even that away from me.
We order some beers and try to make a toast in anticipation of next week's London Terrace Street fair.
I let Larry pick out the appetizers because, frankly, I have no appetite. Just a thirst for blood.
When the appetizers arrive, I dig right in. If my diet were a person, I might yell, "This is not a good time!" as it stood there staring at me, hands on hips.
I have never chewed so angrily in my life. One enormous woman stood out at the Fucks of the Round Table. Picture Aretha Franklin, but crass, rude, extremely loud and stupid. Put her in an ugly gray jacket, and give her a watered-down margarita, as well as a sense of entitlement.
How loud were they? Picture a Boeing 747 screaming down a runway at full throttle. Got it? Well, these people would drown that out. The 747 would whimper and run away, tail between it's landing gear.
Larry tries to lighten the mood by pointing to a pair of Mexican men at the next table. "Those are real Mexicans," he tells us.
Really? Wow. Should have brought my camera, I want to say sarcastically.
As I'm scanning the menu, I see something out of the corner of my eye that scares the shit out of me. A lone man, walking out from the back room in a purple shirt. He is staring out of the corner of his eye at the two Mexican men at the next table. It's the kind of stare you see in movies, right before a gunfight.
I panic. Oh, God! Is this how it's all going to end? Killed by a stray bullet at a low-end Mexican restaurant surrounded by screaming animals?
When the man vanishes, I turn my attention to the quiet, Puerto Rican couple sitting behind David. They too seem annoyed at the Fucks of the Round Table, but the portly man is more interested in eating. I watch him not only eat everything on his plate, but then move on to her plate, sticking his fork in the food and helping himself.
God only knows what's going on at home, I think. They could at least be discreet and switch plates.
Even though I'm eating all of the chips in front of me, I'm delighted that there is a low-carb dinner option: Chicken with vegetables. I order that when our exasperated waiter comes back. If I could read his mind, he'd probably say, "I'm so glad I don't have that table tonight.
I notice that there is no music playing in here tonight. That's probably because there aren't speakers loud enough to compete with the Fucks of the Round Table
Suddenly, the jukebox springs to life. A lively Mexican version of Happy Birthday blares out of the machine as a line of waiters appears at the Fucks of the Round Table. The big, loud heifer is having a birthday, although they're probably faking it because the pig wants dessert.
As a big black and white sombrero appears on top of the heifer's head, I change the lyrics to Happy Birthday: Fatal Birthday to you, fatal birthday to you...
I turn to Larry. "Wow, plenty of material for the blog."
David overhears and asks about my blog. I can feel Larry's body stiffen as I talk about it. And I can hear him telepathically say to me, "Don't you dare tell him the address. I'll kill you if you embarrass me." I know that Larry doesn't read my blog, but he has a good idea of my crass mentality.
David excuses himself to go to the bathroom. We decide that David has suffered enough and signal for the check.
When David returns, we learn that there is a room in the back.
"There is?" I say, shocked and conflicted. Had we gone back there my blood pressure would be lower, but I'd have no story.
"Yes. It's loud, because of the music, but there's no table like that there." He says as he motions to the Fucks.
Outside, it is 7,000 decibels quieter. When a huge tractor trailer roars past and bounces all over the uneven road, I don't even flinch.
Here is a lovely video surveillance image for you to admire.
And if you think I'm exaggerating, here is an actual picture from the official Tequila Chito's website, taken on another night. Note the positioning of the tables, the plasma screen TV playing soccer, and the two Mexican men right under it. I guess they're part of the decor.