Yes, I realize that most folks who don’t hail from these here parts, deep in the heart of Texas, just won’t understand. Chuy’s (prounounced Chew-eeze) is an Austin institution. When people come to town (I guess I should edit that to) when people used to visit us, there was no question that we’d take them to Chuy’s. That’s before they expanded and have restaurants scattered about the state, and maybe beyond our borders now. They used to be Austincentric. They are an infamous Tex-Mex institution of deliciousness. I’ve been known to drink three or more strawberry margaritas (back in the day) and my hubby would, obviously, drive me home and enjoy my company. I admit, I’m entertaining with a few frozen-no-salts in me. Really! And I can sing too…
My son, headed off to college next week, said he’d like to hit it up for old time’s sake, and because he knows that Colorado just can’t cut the Tex-Mex mustard (to put it mildly). For the last sixty-freaking-three long ass days, I’ve avoided ALL Tex-Mex like the plague. I love it. I could eat beans, salsa, chips, margaritas, flautas, burritos, chimichangas, jalapenos, fajitas, breakfast tacos and tortillas for every single meal. No lie. We didn’t buy bread when I was growing up. Everything went in tortillas pretty much, even hotdogs.
So, we all headed to dinner… I’m talking the whole fam-damily. Ex hubs, his wife, son, our two boys, my hubby and I all crammed into a big round corner booth. I bet I gained 4.3 pounds on smells alone. Not only that, but I had a covert lusty affair with a frozen prickly pear margarita the woman was sipping in the next booth. I sat with my back to it but I swear it was flirting with me and whispering come-ons from a table away.
Did I mention it’s Hatch Green Chili time and there’s a special menu that brings the heat? (Oh for the love of Pedro! PorQue?) Four baskets of chips, queso with beef mixed in, 2 types of salsas and creamy jalapeno ranch (which rocks my socks) taunted me, mere inches from my face. I wanted to pick up a chip and lick it. Just to pretend. But, I ordered a salad with grilled chicken fajita meat, NO CHEESE, NO AVACADO, NO JALEPENO RANCH… the waitress gave me a pitying look. She knew. We all knew that this was a special kind of torture. I watched as faces were stuffed and the queso bowl scraped clean. Just so you know, to my left one son had a Big As Your Face Burrito with beans and cheese and queso sauce, next another one with beef and hatch chili queso sauce, heaven on a plate! Then, a Chuychanga, a freaking chicken Chimichanga with 2 kinds of sauce… a Chili Relleno, mixed chicken and beef fajitas with homemade corn tortillas… then my
sad face salad.
Just so you know, I kicked Chuy’s ass! Not one chip, not one bite of queso, not one blessed sip of a frozen-no-salt. Truth be told, I honestly didn’t care. That’s a lie, I wanted to not care. I did. I wanted to drown myself in queso and drink margaritas til the cows came home.
I did not. I told myself lies about the food in front of me, and how I really, really didn’t want any of it. Even though that delicious carb exploding delectable deliciousness did not enter me, it was all over me. I smelled like homemade melt in your mouth tortillas, fresh fried tortilla chips, and smokey fajitas. As soon as we rolled into the garage, I bolted and I jumped straight in the shower and washed it all off. If I hadn’t, who knows what might have happened, someone might have lost an arm.
My son got his fix, and that’s what mattered.
(*&^%^$! I survived. 🙂