 Cesar's The Killer Margaritas
Cesar's bills itself as the "Home of the Killer Margaritas," and they ain't kiddin'. The margaritas here are no laughing matter. They are no watered-down floof to be sipped after work by giggling coworkers for whom having one margarita comprises "living dangerously." No, these things are fuckin' strong. One of 'em will get you a few steps beyond tipsy, two and you're full-on drunk. Three, and you're stumbling around, slurring your speech, throwing your arm around everyone you meet. So I go to Cesar's quite a bit. The food is terrific (especially the carne asada and the spinach quesadillas), the free chips are retardedly good, and they usually even throw in a complimentary bowl of soup, which sometimes looks distressingly wormy, but it tastes great. The service is always nothing short of spectacular. These ain't none of them lazy Mexicans, I assure you. But certainly the focus is always really on the margaritas. Hoo-ly shit, man, them things is sweeter than candy, and I suck 'em up like it's my last day on earth. Usually this results in my foggily wandering over to the DSW across the street and purchasing several new pairs of brand-name shoes for less. Who says you need to be Carrie Bradshaw to wear Prada? Fuck Carrie Bradshaw! Fuck the fuckin' fuckers! Fuck 'em all! Wait, holy shit, why do I have so many shoes? Oh, Cesar's … the evil that men do lives on in the shit they amassed with a credit card and seriously impaired judgment.
Review by Timothy Hay, April 2004 |
