Note to self: The next time you’re in a city full of Sicilian fishermen, have yourself a pizza or go to a seafood restaurant.

The salsa at Jalapeños was a watery Pico de Gallo that refused to remain on the chip. My wife’s enchilada platter was actually sweet—but that was nothing when compared to her margarita. On the menu, it was called Black Gold, but a more apt name would be the Wilford Brimley; one should expect to contract diabetes should they manage to finish this cloying cocktail.

Something of which I was previously unaware is that it possible to completely hose a plate of fajitas, usually a mouthwatering dish. But serve it up with bland beans, brown guacamole and sub-standard, unseasoned and undercooked meat and you had better prepare yourself for one heck of an unpleasant meal.

I typically avoid completely smearing a restaurant at which I am served a less-than-stellar meal, so I’ll finish with a couple of positives. The service was very good, despite how (surprisingly) busy the joint was. Our waitress was attentive, despite how many tables she was tending to. But the highlight of my meal at Jalapeños was the Tequila, a glass of Tres Generaciónes Añejo, served neat in a small snifter. Must I mention you need not visit Jalapeños to have one?