Adequate food, good cocktails? Service is the tie-breaker
ARNOLD WAYNE JONES | Executive Editor
jones@dallasvoice.com
It’s said that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. That comes close to describing our experience at brunch recently at Don Chingon.
The newish Tex-Mex restaurant on Lower Greenville Avenue only recently began brunch service, and we decided it was time to check it out. The facilities are oddly intriguing, if not outright inviting: A xeriscaped courtyard in front with an oversized bit of decor that calls to mind a pinata; a griffitied wall with the command “Besame mucho” painted on it, in clear violation of the #MeToo movement’s tongue clucking; inside, the style is dark but colorful, with sugar skulls and luchador facemasks adding a buoyant sense of whimsy. For the moment, we were hopeful.
We casually mentioned an outside table would be nice, but when the hostess left to set it up, she placed us indoors, although next to the (closed) garage-door-style wall — near the elements, but not in them. “Ah, well,” we sighed; “maybe she didn’t hear us.”
“Didn’t hear us” became a frustrating refrain.
We found it odd the hostess placed the menus and silverware at the four-top across from each other, as if we were sitting down for a chess match or nuclear disarmament talks, rather than two friends ready to engage in conversation. (We took the seats we wanted catty-corner to each other.) And she didn’t, as is the custom, inform us with the traditional boilerplate, “Your server, So-And-So, will be over in a moment” … which, in retrospect, was at least honest. Other than a bowl of thin corn chips and ramekins of adequate salsa slapped down at our table, that was the only communication we had with an employe for the next 20 minutes.
No one came to wait on us, to check on our waters or ask our drink preferences or, heaven forfend, see if we wanted to order, ya know, food. We chatted amongst ourselves for about 15 minutes, until Valentine whispered to me, “When can I start getting angry that no one has waited on us?” “Five minutes ago,” I shot back.
And the lion was about to roar.
I waved politely in the direction of the bar, the welcome stand, the servers walking past, in hopes of getting someone’s attention, but without luck. I began to wonder whether, while dressing that morning, I had inadvertently donned my cloak of invisibility, before remembering that muggles can’t access such wizardtech. Eventually, a waitress walked within one table of ours so that I had, at least the chance, of sending up a flare like some wayward Gilligan hoping for rescue.
“Excuse me,” I said above a stage whisper, standing slightly from my seat with a flash of my wrist. “Miss!” I repeated, louder. The patrons at the nearby table heard me; they turned. The waitress continued her campaign of myopic deafness. One or two more “misses” finally resulted in me, fully on my feet, and near the top of my lungs, yelling, “Will someone please wait on us!”
That got the server’s attention. And, I believe, several neighborhood dogs.’
The remainder of the meal arrived mostly without a hitch, though it did take an atypically long time for our drink orders to be filled, and at one point a food deliverer asked if we ordered more chips while we sat there with a pile that was large enough that it should have answered his own question. (He proceeded to wander like Diogenes through the streets of Athens, trying to find a hungry table.) We only got a meek, “Sorry for the delay earlier” as we were paying the check. Contrition, it seemed, was in as short supply as efficiency.
What we ate wasn’t bad, though nothing much to bring us back. I liked the cheesy, celebrity-inspired names of the cocktails, which were top-heavy with tequila and mezcals. (Valentine is a committed agavephile.) The combos were pretty solid; a smoky-sweetness to the Shakira Shakira; a bit of spice on the Luis Miguel’s Espicia. But they washed down some pretty ordinary cuisine.
The chile con queso ($8) was misnamed (as they often are): it was, rather, melted cheese with a light topping of diced tomatoes; the claim of roasted green chiles — the “chile” in chile con queso, mind you — was more aspirational than real. It was Velveeta-y, as tasteless as KellyAnne Conway’s wardrobe.
I stepped outside my comfort zone to order the chimichanga ($16). I’ve long felt chimichangas (deep-fried burritos) were an artifice of Tex-Mex, not a true staple — more marketing and salesmanship to bloated American waistlines than a legitimate culinary creation. As a result, I haven’t ordered one since two competent presidential administrations ago. But this was was filled with brisket, with cheddar cheese, with a spicy-sweet BBQ sauce and a horseradish cheese sauce (according to the menu) that suggested some kick to it. I was game.
What the menu promised and what my tastebuds detected were not in sync. The distinctive bite from horseradish was entirely absent, and the cheese sauce was as bland as the queso. It also arrived cut in half, like a sandwich wrap. Maybe it fit on the plate better that way, or maybe it disguised how unimpressively the burrito was stuffed. The chopped brisket inside seemed fine, though its flavors were masked rather than highlighted by a thick flour tortilla (which was not especially crispy, as you associate with a chimichanga). The side salad had the benefit of being dressed with some tropical fruits, though the borracho beans would be more accurately styled bore-racho.
The Don Chingon hash ($14) was amply sized and probably the best of the few dishes we tried, but other than the tequila selection, there’s not much that would bring us back. We left disappointed, like the proverbial lamb … though actually, some mutton might have spiced things up some. Couldn’t have hurt.
Don Chingon, 2237 Greenville Ave.