Recently I made a pretty substantial life-altering decision – I’ve made the switch from briefs to boxers. I briefly tried the boxer-briefs, but really, I’ve never been a real middle-of-the-road kind of guy. I’m still going through a period of adjustment, though, and for the last few days I’ve been a bit off-kilter. Maybe this is what uncharacteristically lead me to lead my wife and I into the Quarter the other evening for Mexican food. Also, shrimp.
French Market Place feels pretty touristy, like a mini boardwalk of sorts, but some days I like feeling like a tourist. I wanted to sit outside, but the view was just of the side of a 1992 Toyota Camry and a rusty Econoline, so we decided to sit in the back ‘courtyard’ – a narrow, steep brick-walled asylum filled with the aromas of cilantro, grilled meat, and bitchy cigarettes.
The Yucatan Shrimp was tasty and spicy, but not hurt your butthole spicy. It came with a ‘salsa’ that was really just a lot of shredded nasty ass iceberg lettuce inside a martini glass. Man, I just wanted a plate of big shrimp, not a bunch of lettuce thats just gonna sit inside of a cup playin grabass. We ate the shrimp and they were good.
My meal was… uh… what the fuck was it… oh, pork loin and chorizo fajitas. Fajitas are like the self checkout isle at the grocery – they’re just a way for people that work somewhere to do less work. It’s a meal you have to assemble yourself and no matter how you try and stack that shit, you NEVER get all the meat and fixins into the 3-4 shitty rinkydink tortillas that they give you. Instead, you fork a bunch into your face and then try and make stupid little wraps that fall all apart when you bite them. Goddammit. The food was tasty, except for the chorizo which was really bland. Dinner at this black cat made me really really miss the magical fajita quesadilla from San Felipe back in Pittsboro.
Overall the food was good, but it was way overpriced and atmosphere was kinda bleh. Such is what one should expect when one eats in the French Market.