Y tu casa tambien

The name Mi Casa Too makes no sense. It’s an example of that horrible “Spanglish” silliness, which is bad enough, but I’m not even sure what it’s supposed to mean. I thought it was a clever name for a sequel—you know, like Look Who’s Talking Too, the very pinnacle of cleverness—but there is no Mi Casa. Whether or not there ever was one, I don’t know. But there are now a number of these Mexican joints around Northern Nevada, and they’re all called Mi Casa Too.

I’d been to the location on Fourth Street a few times and enjoyed the stiff margaritas, labyrinthine interiors and the large portions of fairly good food. This new location at Franktown Corners lacks the atmosphere of that other location, but the fare is still fair, and the margaritas ($6.25, 16 oz.) are as stiff as morgue guests.

It was after 8 o’clock on a Monday night when my friend Ann and I arrived, so it wasn’t really a surprise that the place was practically deserted. We were seated between the only other occupied tables in the restaurant. It was nice of them to put us between two crowded booths in order to provide the illusion of a lively atmosphere.

I had the beef fajitas ($13.65), grilled with bell peppers, tomatoes and onions and served with rice and beans, sour cream and guacamole, pico de gallo and two (count ’em, two) tortillas. Apart from the tortillas, the servings were generous. The meat smelled great but was a little thin in the succulence department.

Ann had the chicken tacos ($12.65). She was impressed that the hard-shell tacos could stand upright unassisted—they were not, as is so often the case, soaked right through. We were both impressed with the fresh orange slices that came with our meals. She chastised me for taking a bite out of mine mid-meal. Supposedly, it was there to be an after-dinner palette-cleanser. But I felt like eating mine in the middle of the meal, and to hell with etiquette.

They were playing some nice Mexican music, but for some reason, I kept hearing the opening guitar part to Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man” once every five minutes or so. It might have been coming from the TV over the bar, but I swear those were the only times I heard any sound from that direction. Selective hearing perhaps. I am often prone to imagining monster guitar riffs out of nowhere, but Ann heard it, too, so it wasn’t entirely delusional.

We were having fun and apparently overstayed our welcome because they eventually turned off the lights. We took the hint. On the way out, I asked our waiter for a “to go” menu. He couldn’t find one, so I stole one of the laminated ones when he wasn’t looking. We tried to make a daring getaway, stolen menu in hand, but they had already locked the front door, so we were trapped. Luckily, I have some experience with these matters and was able to turn the deadbolt and enable our narrow escape.

In closing, sorry for stealing the menu, but I left a nice tip. The ambience lacks, but the margaritas are tasty. The salsa’s weak, but the guacamole’s above average. Y’all can do the math.