Compadres y commadres! Prospect Parkers OR given a previous post should i wax humoristic and say Prospect Parkas (not COAT "parkas," you dear phonetically-inclined smart alecks out there!) and manifest destiny gold prospectors, put down them there sediment sieves, and follow us into the vibrant, psychedelic rainforests of Barrio on 7th Ave and 3rd St.
Disclaimer: DDB never holds back when it comes to dishing (LOL!) the truth on the fine eateries of our neighborhood (our "barrio" if you will... oh yes, DDB does its research, wikipedia-style) however!
But there it was. A beautiful, sunny day, and entering into the carnival tent emerged DDB, with its necessary array of accoutrements: camera, notepad, pencil, batting glove, iPod, ready to walk that tight-rope between curious patron and patronizing curiosity, mind still unclouded by unfortunate proprietary overlaps. Dare I say it was as if the circus curtain was thrown back and a hush fell over the audience? It could certainly have been because of the dearth of clientele, but with alarming plausibility, I conjured the idea that DDB's cover could have been blown (could it have been the glove?!?!!) and thus with feigned casualness did the wait staff saunter around, the bartender disappear into the kitchen, all of whom clearly desperate to conceal the panic that had just whipped their souls! What else could explain the extravagant few minutes I spent waiting to be seated?! or maybe they just didn't know what to do with customers?! maybe they thought I still had to tie up my elephant outside?! LOL.
It was thus with mounting skepticism that I took my seat and began to note my environs, as a psychic scanning the crime scene for remnants of transgressive acts... only in reverse chronological order, ya know?
Forget the freakishly long-armed dancers or the mural's am-i-still-drunk-perspective or the menacing army of bananas or EVEN the Wild West swinging saloon doors, I think it was the vision of mop and spray can seated across from me that next caught and held my eye. Now DDB accepts the proximity of cleanliness to godliness, but that doesn't mean you want your tacos scented with Palmolive or to suspect that, at the drop of a hat, those mop's tentacles might lash out and steal your guacamole!
Speaking of which, it is almost criminal that even the most indignant plots and blossoming skepticism can be dispersed with the thought of that divine substance of green liquid-y gold! It's like mashed Kryptonite to DDB!
And there it was, placed in colorful counterpoint to the chicken enchiladas that had begun settling into my plate. And despite the fact that it tasted like what I would imagine paper to taste like (guac IS slang for money now, isn't it? maybe Barrio just took that too literally! LOL!!), the guac nonetheless added a subtle flair to the mouth-watering and tasty main course. Never has making a mess with your food been so delicious! Before I could even restrain myself enough to relax what must have been my three hands holding fork and knife and guacamole-laden chip, I had dispensed with the savory enchiladas. You can see that my attempt at capturing this miracle of melange proved too late. :-(
But though I might have missed the opportunity to photo the fiesta, mid-gluttonous rampage, at least we can affirm together the adage: You are what you eat! :-)
Sensing perhaps that the iron was hot and that the scales of culinary justice might be tipping in their favor, Barrio went for the knock-out punch with a tender wink-wink moment and tried to not charge for the two Sprites. Now maybe the moral outrage at such transparent bribery (carbonated payola!!) was somewhere in the enchilada I just scarfed down, and though it might lower the moral currency of DDB in the eyes of our loyal following, DDB has to admit to being touched, if not altogether shocked, by the gesture. Now, you surely cast aspersions if you think DDB would accept such gratuitous payola! DDB might not be above enjoying such blatant currying (curry? not at Barrio surely!!! LOL.) of favor, but its journalistic integrity will forever remain unimpeachable. ~Period~. Tilda. Another period.
But now, with my reservations melting away as so much sour cream on warmed tortilla and with the taste of real Sprite (no, not no Pizza Minus Sierra Mist knockoffs!) coursing through my arteries as so much fine mineral sediment through well-worn tributaries, this ol' prospector forgot for a moment the color palette of bubble gum bursts and mango lassi (barf!), the convincing, conspiratorial casualness of the staff, and even the glimpse behind the carnival curtains, and ensconced himself in tryptophanic (gobble gobble!) satisfaction. And whaddya know, I even got my gold after all. And if getting gold wasn't good enough already, it was stuffed with chocolate!!
Andale! Andale! Arriba! Arriba! Yiii-haaaaah!