Popp Guns Down El Camino
Margaritas are so sickly sweet they’d embarrass the bartender at a sorority social. The thick sludge masquerading as a michilada was “like drinking Old Bay,” one companion marveled. Too much of the meat was fatty and/or tough. Straight through to a final cobbler made by someone who had evidently mistaken salt for sugar, it did not get better. Forgotten side dishes, inexplicable delays, inconsistent portion sizes: By night’s end, it was hard to avoid thinking that dinner at El Camino Real verged on fraud.
Tex-Meh [City Paper]