Anahuac Restaurant

Reader Submitted. Thank you!

FYI: Not a recommendation

Here is my blow-by-blow of Anahuac.

The atmosphere was non-existent—actually, insulting. The mock-Mayan pyramid, the fake flowers, the poor sound system.

The sight of six white couples, over fifty, was the first sign of real trouble. I suspected half of them had never had an interest in ‘real’ Mexican food, and the other half lost their taste-buds before the gave up there two-pack-a-day habit. Caveat, before children and before moving to Tacoma, I would have taken one look at the clientele and left. But now, I have one hungry husband who has put in a 14-hour day, two babes and I am still recovering from a cook-fest holiday season. So, onward we went, past the sad little flowers, scary ceiling plant and sterile white walls to our booth.

The majority of highchairs were broken—the booster chairs do not fit the booth stools—so your child’s knees will be at the table—which is probably best, making it easier for him to kick the food out of the way. So, not a family friendly place.

Chips and Salsa: If you can’t, or won’t take the time to get these right just close up shop. Come on—to look at the salsa you would think we had a shortage of tomatoes in this country—and to taste it you would be certain there is some sort of spice embargo. I knew it was particularly gross when my two-year-old reached for the salt. I will say not more on the subject.

The kids’ menu had a good variety of foods—but what they failed to mention is that everything is drowned in cheddar cheese. Yes, everything—even the tamales. I have never been served the tamale smothered in cheese. I have eaten in different Latin American countries, and ordered from high-end to roadside places—and every other place had the decency to wrap the tamale in some parchment if not a corn husk.

While my husband enjoyed the house margarita—something anyone of you can easily duplicate at home—I tried to slurp some sprite from all the ice in my glass.

My dish was from the “Mexican Plates” and as far as I could tell it arrived off of the boat some weeks ago—directly from Mexico. The meat was dry and lifeless, the sauce/seasoning was seared on—you honestly could have done the Pepsi-Challenge and no one would have guessed what type of animal had the indignity to die for this meal! The beans had the taste of lard, which I consider authentic, but were properly watered down so that one can of Rosarita’s with two gallons of water probably lasts them through the weekend. The corn tortillas for my tacos were not as delicate as most ‘from scratch’ experiences I have had—but it was a Friday night—so maybe not technically the weekend.

My husband’s dish of “devil shrimp’ were a version of hell. If your definition of hell is eating over-cooked shrimp in tomato paste with mediocre flour tortillas curled at the edges from over heating then this is Lucifer’s Special!

Finally, I remembered reading Ed’s review—which is what prompted me to take my husband out to celebrate our one-year anniversary in Tacoma—Ed said he was tempted to order a margarita with every course. In hindsight, that is probably the only way to get through one of those meals.