GASTRONORMOUS

When I moved to Brooklyn 3 years ago, I thought I would miss terribly my old neighborhood, and its proximity to Festival Mexicano. As it turns out, absence did not make the heart grow fonder. In fact, when I return to the East Village/Lower East Side neighborhoods, especially on weekend nights, I realize how blind I was to its faults. In the last number of years, it has become overrun with rowdy drunk college students and out-of-towners.

I fear the coffin of good memories I held for the neighborhood was nailed shut upon my last visit to Festival Mexicano with Hubs, The Predicate, and Fab Eddie, weekend before last. My usual meal, enchiladas suizas (which are not smothered in the tomatillo sauce usually associated with that word, but pumpkin seed sauce) were extremely salty, and the refried beans tasted…sour. And the restaurant was crowded with hipsters, college students, and a big bachelorette party (to which someone brought a shoebox full of jello shots–classy). Cheap margaritas can only add so much when the food and scene is so lacking.

After dinner we decided to go out for a drink before heading back to our respective homes, but every bar we tried to go to was crowded to capacity with what else but drunk college kids, hipsters, and out-of-towners. The Predicate had the idea to go to Gonzalez y Gonzalez on Broadway. It is kitschy like Festival Mexicano, but on a much grander scale. The decor includes a giant sombrero and a flashing rainbow of lights outside. We thought that would be a sort of ironically funny thing to do, and in keeping with the Mexican theme of the evening. But when we arrived, there was a line outside, and doormen were stamping hands. I couldn’t believe it. Even the tackiest place in the neighborhood was suddenly hip. And I’m sorry, a line and hand-stamping? That I can’t even enjoy for the irony.

In desperation, we went to Botanica Bar around the corner on Houston, but it was so crowded there was no place to stand, let alone sit, and fresh DJ tracks were pumping so loudly we couldn’t hear each other. So feeling much too old and decidedly un-hip, Hubs and I slunk home to watch a rerun of Saturday Night Live instead.

To add injury to insult, I felt sick later in the night, and it definitely was not from the margaritas. I realized then that not only had I grown out of the neighborhood I once called home, but maybe out of Festival Mexicano too.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 27th, 2008 at 11:42 am and is filed under Food musings, Restaurant reviews. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.