The Whimsy Killer in Your Pocket

I spent last weekend in Dallas with my in-laws. They don’t care about “good food” in the way I care about “good food” (I am trying not to say “foodie” in this sentence). And you know what was fun about that divergence? Rocking up to a random-ass Tex-Mex spot that my father-in-law had driven by one time. There was no consulting the hive mind. No cross-referencing with Eater. No checking whether it was on anyone’s “must try” list. It was simply the option that was top of mind after I declared an urgent need for a margarita.

Located in a sunbaked strip mall, “Manny’s” looked like Tommy Bahama made love to a real-life cowboy and birthed a humid terrarium for hungry suburbanites. My husband ordered a giant, tri-flavored alcoholic slushie that made us both gasp, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Utah anymore.” I stuffed my face with free tortilla chips and respectably spicy salsa. And then, without much thought because this was not a very cool restaurant in which ordering felt high stakes, I quickly zeroed in on the blackened salmon tacos — a rare fish moment for this usual vegetarian.