Vodka & Pancakes

the things I eat and the drinks I drink…a Louisiana blog


Nachos, yes. Broccoli Enchiladas, no.

Omnomnomnomnomnomnom, I eat nachos anywhere.

It’s like a mantra I think when I get to go eat nachos.  One time I went six months and didn’t eat nachos (impossible) or drink margaritas (meh) because we were going to the beach.  I learned ‘getting beach ready’ = not worth it.  We got off the plane and I ate nachos and had a margarita.  It was like shoving heaven in my face.  Then I put on a bathing suit and was sad.

original- nachos

My friend sent me a text last night saying “tomorrow for the LSU game is veggie soup, sparking rose and handsies.  Who’s in?”  I wonder if they were trying to appeal to the vegetarian side of me or they make really poor menu choices.   Veggie soup didn’t really make me want to get out of bed today.

But nachos did.

I once ate at this terrible restaurant that I won’t name (Frankie’s) and ordered nachos which were, aforementioned, terrible.  As I was eating them, I kept saying “oh these are so gross.”  “Ew, so terrible, omnomnom.” Next thing I knew, I looked down and all my nachos were gone.  “Who ate all these terrible nachos?!”

Well, it was me.  “Should we get some more?”

original- margarita

So we were headed over to our friends house to watch college football all day and drink all the drinks.

But along the way, we stopped at The Original because my desire for nachos was clouding my better judgement (just kidding, I have none) and we decided to have margaritas.  These are no normal margaritas, these are Mas Finas.  That’s spanish for “hold on to your butts because you’re about to be shitfaced.”  I used to hang out at this bar by my house a lot and there was this mexican midget and he would try and teach me spanish every time I came in (no lie) so above translation is legit (lie).

It’s like when my boyfriends aunt and uncle try to teach us bridge after cocktails and dinner when we go over there.  It’s pointless.  If I’ve even smelled alcohol, don’t bother.  You aren’t even a blimp on the radar anymore.


But my point behind writing this was, as I ordered my food I glanced down at the menu to see they offer broccoli enchiladas.  Hahaha, weird.  It just seemed so misplaced to me (first who even likes broccolis and second who wants BROCCOLIS IN THEIR ENCHILADAS?) that I had to take a pic.  So after two ‘hold your butts shitfaceds’ and 18 nachos (for me, I don’t share) we headed to our friends house.

Apparently they had eaten at the Original the night before and he casually mentioned we should try the broccoli enchiladas.  It was as if time stood still.  “No thank you.  I don’t believe I will try those and you sir are gross.”

So as I rethought my friendship with the broccoli enchilada eater I realized that he has such good taste in other aspects of his life that maybe he is onto something with all this broccoli enchilada eating.  Doesn’t matter, I’ll have to take his word on this.  Unless they start making broccoli nachos (weird, but I’ll eat it).

Omnomnomnomnomnomnom, I eat broccoli nachos anywhere.


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Benito’s. Nachosnomnomnomnom

This place is super authentic mexican food.  They light your queso flameado with 151 and don’t give you chips and hot sauce.

Oh, and they don’t have pickled jalapeños.  Fresh only.  I didn’t know that til after I ordered my jalapeño nachos.  When I asked our waitress for pickled I received a brusque “no” tinged with what I think was disgust.    I think she was trying to kill me.  It’s been two hours and I haven’t stopped crying and moaning incoherently yet.

They need a warning label: ‘This food is hot as shit.  If you’re going to act like a baby, get the fuck out.”

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Mexican Inn & The Mule. FML. Oh and my essay on Nantucket…

These are actually two places I vowed never to return to.  Also, I went with two people I vowed to never hang out with again.  But I had a great time until it was time to go home.

Once I saw an episode of CSI: New York (lame, yes, I am aware) where a cab would pick people up and lock the doors and murder them.  Cabs make me nervous.  I don’t know if it’s the episode of CSI, or that I trust myself with a complete stranger when I’m extremely intoxicated but something about the whole process doesn’t sit well with me.  I have had some crazy (and when I say crazy, I mean fucking crazy) shit happen to me in cabs.  So to say I’m leery, that would be an understatement like merely saying I like breakfast sandwiches.  Also, it very rarely ends without me arguing with them.  I’m a gem in the rough, my boyfriend is a very lucky man.

Anyways, back to Saturday night.   We spent the day drinking Stella with our best friends (I joke we shouldn’t hang out them but obviously that means they’re the most fun friends I have.  But considering I only have four total that probably isn’t that much of a distinction so I will leave that to the to decide) and later had dinner at Mexican Inn.

I said above, but a long time ago I had decided this wasn’t the place for me.  After a decade you tend to forget things such as this so we decided to have dinner there before heading to the Mule for Poo Live Crew.  As everyone already knows and I have mentioned before at some point, nachos are delicious.   Even if you are eating them at Mexican Inn.  I also had several margaritas which helps make everything even more shmelicious.

So after, we walk over to The Mule, a dive that I used to hang out a lot in college.  Then I frequented it because it was next door to Jack in the Box but thank god I have (somewhat) gotten that bad habit under control.  Jack in the Box is gross unless I have to close one eye to eat it then it becomes somewhat delicious.  Poo Live Crew was playing- always entertaining, and yes that guy is humping a post, but after a while one of us had had too much to drink (for once, not me) and wanted to go home.

So I called the cab that had dropped us off and he said he could be there in 15 minutes.  Lying son of a bitch…

Twenty minutes later, we are still waiting, sitting on the front steps of Mexican Inn where he had previously dropped us off.  After the love of my life’s constant bitching, I call the cabbie again inquiring where he is.  He said he changed his mind, and picked some other people up and was now in a neighboring city.  Well, that took the wind out of my sails but I at least managed in the very short conversation that ensued to drop 5 f-bombs and say bullshit twice.  I got my point across.

Here is that same sign at 12:30am.  God, I hate this sign.  So I finally get another cab to come pick us up and 20 minutes later we are officially headed home.   I relearned something I already knew but had started to forget- taking a cab blows.

Here is a random short story about the worst weekend of my life to date.  Think back, September 2011.  An essay about why not to ever go to Nantucket.  Or maybe it’s about why you should never hang out with my cousins.

Essay 1 & Cab Ride One- I’m going Home.

I started my adventure at 7am in Dallas and was supposed to land in Nantucket around 4pm, by means of three flights.  Two tedious flights later and equipped with the knowledge that I will do anything to avoid flying into the Boston airport, I have another delay for my final flight into Nantucket.

This sign might as well say ‘Welcome to Hell’ because, in the end, 6 delays later my final flight is starting to board.  I’m starting to feel the relief in knowing all this bullshit is about to dump me in my final location, until we walk outside on the tarmac and I’m greeted by this.

As I walk toward the smallest plane in the history of the world, I was pretty sure I was doing a fair-to-moderate job of containing the panic attack ripping through my body, except the guy walking next to me offered his comfort by means of holding his hand.  Pass.  It’s hard to get away from a creepster when you only have six seat options but I manage to keep my hands to myself and live throughout the flight.  Finally, I make it to Nantucket.  Too bad I couldn’t turn around and go home.

No one was waiting for me.  Surprised?  No, my cousins can be dicks.

I call my cousin, politely asking where the fuck she is, and she said to take a cab.  I should have taken that as a sign of what was to come.  I get a cab who tells me I need to go to the ATM because he isn’t going to take me anywhere using credit.  Alright asshole.  So I go to the ATM and then he drives me to the house.  It’s two blocks away.  I was in four inch heels and could have walked and not broken a sweat.  Whatever, I decide, I’m lazy so this is fine.  He gets out, grabs my bag and drops it unceremoniously in the yard (which, by the way, he had driven through which I thought to be rather bizarre) and tells me I owe him $5.  I hand him one of the twenties he made me get back a the airport and he then informs me he doesn’t make change and got in his cab and drove away.

I just stood there for what could have been five minutes or an hour, staring off in the direction he drove, which was probably back to the airport to fuck someone else over, as I contemplated walking back to Texas.  Should have.  Would have been a better weekend.

Essay Two & Cab Ride Two- I’m alive…surprisingly.  Now I’m going to murder someone.

Fast forward to the next night.  We go to dinner.  Drink.  We go to the bar. Drink.

My one cousin who is living there for the summer decides to stay with her boyfriend that night instead of coming home with the two people who had flown across the country to visit her for the weekend, who basically, are at her mercy.  Even though, considering everything I went through to get there, I wasn’t too surprised since she’s only 24 and still acts like an idiot. Unfortunately this left me with my other cousin, who, as I glance over at her, is having trouble standing without needing assistance.  It’s at this moment I make the decision to not visit them ever again, regardless of where they decide to go.

So I take control, seeing as the girl swaying next to me obviously isn’t capable of getting us home, and grab her hand and walk us out to where someone had mentioned they had seen cabs earlier.  They were lying.  So standing in the cold (Nantucket is cold in the late summer.  No idea.  Being from Texas I assume everywhere is 106 everyday) I finally hail a cab.  I hand over the address and my drunk cousin starts to speak.  And my god, does she ever.  I normally find her quasi-amusing when she is this drunk but some of the verbaldiarrhea spewing forth from her pink smeared  lipsticked mouth was astounding.  I mean, I’ve heard a lot of shit and would normally say it takes a lot of offend me, but this was a real work of linguistics.  Apparently the cab driver thought so as well, and after yelling at my cousin and making her cry- I didn’t intervene, she deserved it, immediately stops the car and kicked us out.

So we get out and the slow realization creeps over me that we have been dumped in the middle of the street and in his haste to get the fuck away from us, he didn’t make us pay.  I guess this karmically makes up for my overpayment from the day before.

I look around, it’s dark, and all the houses look the same.  When I had arrived the afternoon before I had asked why all the houses look alike and my cousin told me that there are ordinances on the island that the houses have to be a certain style.  Apparently that ordinance must mandate that they all look exactly alike.  Oh, pair that with the fact I’m drunk and Nantucket doesn’t believe in street lamps.  So I use my iPhone to see the street sign and then the map app and figure out we are two hours walking distance from the house.  Amazing,

My cousin is leaning against the street sign to maintain balance.  I have never wanted to punch someone in the face so bad, until one hour later when I actually felt like murdering her.  So, here is what happened in that hour to make contemplate taking her life with my own hands.

We stand in the middle of the street where all the houses look alike, and I see a light on in only one house on the entire block (it is almost 2am at this point).  I now wonder what I could possibly have been thinking to make myself believe this was a good idea.  But my phone doesn’t work in Nantucket, except as a flashlight and a map, so I walk us to the back of the house where the light was on and proceed walk into someone’s kitchen.

It was almost like something out of a movie.  There was two very attractive guys about my age (which is really shocking because you would think in this scenario- if this scenario has actually ever happened before- that the people you encounter would be fat and unattractive), one sitting on the couch smoking out of a bong while the other sat on another couch smoking a joint.  Apparently one means of getting high was not enough so had all their bases covered.  Albeit a little surreal,  I had just walked into their house uninvited in the middle of the night so who the fuck was I to judge.

I stand in the kitchen for a bit, my cousin dumps herself at the kitchen table, and finally one looks at me and offered me a beer.  I learned at that moment I don’t know shit about hospitality because if we had swapped places in this story line I’m not completely sure what I would have done.  I live in Texas, I might have shot him.  Apparently residents of Nantucket are more hospitable.

I sit and explain our current situation to these attractive boys and ask to use the phone.   I’m pretty sure I could have asked to move in and they wouldn’t have cared so I call several cab services, most of which have stopped running, in hopes to find one to help us.  They were so nice I had started to think we might have a chance this time.  Nope.  In the time I’m on the phone, my cousin has made her way over to the bong and is talking to the guy opposite me.  Now I have seen too much Law & Order: SVU to think this was the ideal situation to be in but seeing as I ended up sitting across from some dude smoking weed, I realize apparently I haven’t seen enough episodes and need to Netflix that shit.

Next thing I know, the guy my cousin is talking to stands up and starts screaming that we need to leave.  Immediately.  As I am beginning to notice (too late I might add), my cousin has this effect on people.  I learn in this instant, it hurts a lot more when someone pretty yells at you as opposed to someone ugly, but regardless, once again we find ourselves on the curb with no lights.  So as we walk the half mile it takes me to find service so I can resume calling cabs, I ask what in Gods name she said to piss that guy off so quickly.  She doesn’t really remember but that it might have something to do with her joking he was a rapist.

Here are two very important facts.  1- rape jokes are never funny.  And 2- they are especially not funny to the person you are jokingly accusing of being a potential rapist.

Drug users have feeling.  So don’t hurt them because they will kick you out of their house.

Finally I get someone on the phone, couldn’t really explain where we were but offer to pay a reward if he finds us. About 20 minutes later, we get in a cab and at this point I don’t give two shits about what happened on CSI: New York.  It would be a welcome end considering the night I had.  He makes us stop at the ATM to get more cash and once again I am face to face with the airport ATM.  But this time, I am equipped with my cousins debit card because there was no way in hell I was paying.  So I take out $60 even though the total was around $10.  Again, she deserves it.

We finally get home around and we are both starving.  So even though I told her we were no longer on speaking terms I start googling pizza places.  All I could find is a bike that is leaning up against the house (who knows who it belongs to but regardless, I found out you can get a DUI on a bike because a friend of mine got on a golf cart.  I then learned you can even get one on a horse.) so I am hoping pizza delivery was still in effect.  But no, tho shiftiest took almost four hours and it’s 4am so I had a bowl of Chex (gross, who honestly buys that) and went to bed.

The next morning I look at my caller ID to see all the damage I have caused and noticed I have dialed 12 pizza places, including one in Texas.  My cousin wakes to realize she left her phone at the stoner’s house.  She asks if I can give her the number of the cabbie that picked us up from there so she can get the address and go retrieve her phone.  So I murdered her.

As I walked with my carry on the two blocks to the airport to make my toy plane flight, I promised myself I would do everything in my power to never get in another cab.  Or hang out with my cousin again.  I was only able to keep one of those promises.  I haven’t seen my cousin since.

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Dos Gringos. And no one drinks Big Red.

After our amazing experience at Pop’s the other night, we decided to eat at Dos Gringos around the corner.  The thing about this place is that it tastes bad.  But, they now serve Big Red Margaritas.  Gross?  Probably but I am totally going to drink that.  Had I not have already ordered my non-gross drink I would have ordered one.

Since my boyfriend moved here five years ago I have never let him eat here.  I swore it off after high school but I didn’t pinpoint why until I finally thought about it.  I mean, as I have already mentioned, the food makes my tastebuds unhappy but I eat a lot of gross shit so it’s not like that would that stop me.  I think it stems from them confiscating my fake ID in high school.  But considering I can probably still pass for a college student, I can’t even imagine what I looked like when I was 17 and trying to order drinks.  Probably like I was 8.

The bright side of Dos Grigos?  When there are only four other people eating in the same establishment as you, you get your food fast.  I had literally just said the word “nachos” and that shit was sitting in front of me.

Back to the important part of this story.  We sat (wherever we wanted because their customers were missing) in a booth and there was a picture duct taped to the side of our booth (classy) that said they now offer Big Red Margaritas (equally classy).

I kept looking at the mug shot-esque picture of a larger dude holding a margarita with a bottle of Big Red dumped upside down on top.  To say I was intrigued would have been an understatement.  Here is a gross fact about myself.  I love Big Red.  It is delicious and thirst quenching.  (side story.  I was in New Orleans this past week [dear Jesus] and we were all sitting at a famous restaurant [hungover and semi drunk] ordering brunch.  My boyfriend’s sister was complaining she was really thirsty and dehydrated.  So she ordered a screwdriver.  Made me laugh.  I would have ordered water but I was drinking brandy milk punch and a bloody mary so who the fuck was I to say anything).

Anyway, the guy in the mug shot looked like our waiter but I didn’t want to ask if that was him, it would be like saying, “you look like that fat guy.  Tell me more about this Bid Red Margarita?”  “Wait, you think that’s me?  That guy’s fat.  What are you saying?  And to answer your question, any drink made with Big Red is delicious.”

Of course I asked and he told us he was in San Antonio recently and the drink was offered somewhere along the river walk.  So apparently that makes three people on the planet that like Big Red.  Me, this dude and one person in San Antonio.


Drinks on Fire! I ate at La Familia

It made me laugh because the drinks were delivered by our waiter when my other half was in the little boys room.  The waiter looked at me, lit my drink on fire then said, “Blow it out.  Make a wish.  Wish for another margarita” and then walked away.  Made me giggle a little regardless of the fact his delivery left a little to be desired. So my boyfriend comes back to the table and the waiter reappeared and lights his drink on fire.  He looked at him, and said, “Blow it out.  Make a wish.  Wish for another margarita.”  I didn’t giggle that time.  It angered me.  I now hate that guy.

I titled this Drinks on Fire but actually everything was on fire.   Here are some fajeetas on fire.  Actually that’s not my food so I’m not sure what that is on fire, it could be nachos for all I know.  This place is so dark, it’s like eating in your closet with the lights off.  I think they light your food and drinks on fire so you can finally see who ended up meeting you for dinner.  Wear your flame retardant clothes.

It’s what I imagine eating in hell is like.

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La Familia

Where did I want to go?  Fred’s.  But at 10:01am I was quasi-politely informed that I would have to wait another 29 minutes til they opened at 10:30.

Seeing as we walked there and had few other options, we found that La Familia opens at 8. Which is pretty crazy because who is eating mexican food at 8am.  Not this person.

But it also appears no one eats mexican food at 10:15.

A little something about La Familia is they shake your hand when you walk in the door.  Well, a little something about me is I distinctly don’t like people touching me (which I’m pretty sure it’s a trait I share with most of America).  Fortunately I think we blindsided them by showing up to eat there so we sidestepped the handshake when we got there by throwing open the door, taking off running and throwing ourselves at the first table by the door.

They got me on the way out though.

I ordered huevos con papa which, as I explained to my other half (who is from Louisiana and doesn’t know the linguistics of spanish as well as I do) huevos con papas means mexican food in spanish.

Definitely try La Familia at night, they light your margarita on fire when they give it to you.  And as we all know, fire + alcohol = good times.

But after your flaming margaritas, don’t forget.  They are waiting for you on the way out.

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Yukatan Taco Stand

To say I might have been over served last night would be an understatement.  My evening started classy at Saint Emilion, started going downhill with my arrival at Showdown (two things about that statement.  1- who goes to Showdown after going to Saint Emilion?  Obviously I should have just gone home at that point.  2- I have my own mug there.  Awesome or I seriously need to get my shit together?…I haven’t decided yet) and ended poorly at Jack in the Box.  Judge me, it’s fine.  I do.

But, point being, it resulted in delicious tacos for lunch today.  Not a total loss.

I like Yukatan because I like the table hot sauce.  It’s tasty and mucho spicy.  That and the frozen screwdrivers are strong.  Not that I will be having any.

Oh god, maybe just one.

909 W Magnolia