Last night I went out for dinner with my family. We went to Mia Margarita, a place I had never heard of before. They do Mexican food! I wasn't expecting to write a potato post about it.
WebsiteI looked at the menu online earlier that day. There were no chips. This surprised me. I was not particularly expecting a mexican place to do chips, but the webpage displayed a link to this menu next to a picture of a bowl of chips that did not exist on the menu itself.
There were chips. A surprising number of restaurants neglect to update their online menus when they make adjustments, but I must wonder what exactly happened here. The website had a picture.
The chips were nothing particularly special, but they were well seasoned with a smoky salt and chipotle sauce that paired well together. I did not realise, at the time, that they were the most flavour I would experience that evening.
I wondered if I could get away with taking pictures of some of our food, to add to this post. I thought about my parents asking what I was doing, and how I would be dragged into explaining. I thought about them reading the things I post on this page. I decided that this review would survive without images.
We sat down and my mother gave me some mail they had for me; from my bank, from the government. I gave my bank my new name and address months ago. The letter was to my deadname. I wondered how long it had been on their counter for. There was a Christmas card, from the couple who used to take care of my brother and I after school. I wondered if these people, who had known me since I was five years old or so, would accept me if I came out to them. They're older than my parents are, but they're not British, so they might not have the same depth of trained transphobia. I suspect I will never know. I don't know if I will ever be brave enough to take that risk with them.
We were given a bottle of water, which I mention for two reasons. Firstly, that the bottle it was given in was truly one of the most friendly bottles I have had the pleasure of being served table water in, and I wished for an excuse to include a photo of it.
Fig 1: A bottle which, mercifully, did not contain tequila, though the actual contents did not taste that much better.
The second is to lament the universally poor quality of restaurant tap water, which is consistently worse than the filtered water I am used to *or* the ordinary tap water that my partner assures me carries the SA Water Seal of Approval.
My family tends to order lots of small things for dinner, so as to try more interesting things. As we looked over the menu, they asked about my work, and my game development hobby. I wondered if I had the heart to tell them that I had quit the former six months ago, and that the latter was a part time occupation now. I did not. I said work was fine, and talked about how I was putting out applications but hadn't found a new job yet. We talked about the menu, and I learned that the recommendation to come here came from the hairdresser my family goes to, and that the recommendation was mostly for the drinks. I haven't had my hair cut since I moved out. Growing my hair out has been wonderful, but in that moment I miss our hairdressers terribly. I wonder if they would accept me if they knew why I was so cagey about getting my hair cut for four years. I make a mental note to go get my hair cut some time.
We got mushroom tostadas. I did not know, looking at the menu, what a tostada was. A tostada, I now understand, is a scoop of coleslaw and puréed bean on a thin, crisp fried pancake. I extracted most of the mushrooms to pass off to my brother, but quickly learned that I needn’t have bothered, because the pieces that remained were entirely unidentifiable. I felt that I should have some strong opinion, because the food I was eating had enough weirdness going on to warrant it, but all I could muster was “I guess it's kinda nice”.
My parents asked if I could look after our cat, at their house, for a week. This would be easy, since their house is a short distance from my old office, had I not quit that job six months ago. As it is this would be very inconvenient. I struggled to think how to explain this. I told them I would think about it.
We got haloumi tacos, which also did not exist online. I am typically hesitant to order haloumi because so often it is entirely flavourless, which is a genuinely impressive feat to me and one I am proud to say I cannot replicate. These tacos were not flavourless! They taste! Did they taste good? I think so?
My parents asked about when I was graduating. I told them June, which was true. They asked if I would have a ceremony, and I said maybe, which was not true. They asked why it had taken so long. I shrugged, and didn't tell them it was because I had delayed graduating until I had legally changed my name. They said they were proud of me. I wondered if they would be proud of a girl who had cast off the name that marked me as their family.
We got nachos. Nachos include your choice of meat or mushrooms. I attempted to communicate “nachos but without any of those”, but this was presumably lost in the process of others ordering, so I got mushrooms. Armed with my previous knowledge that the mushrooms here lacked any flavour or other notable quality, I forged ahead, and quickly learned that the rest of the nachos lacked much flavour as well. The notable exception was the avocado, which tasted like avocado but with a sharp, slightly noxious aftertaste reminiscent of the twist in my mother’s face when she saw my pastel-gay outfit for the day. I have to wonder if they–the avocados, not my clothes–were slightly off, or at least massively overripe. Forcing through the mushrooms and avocado on top, though, the rest of the nachos were acceptable; not particularly noteworthy, but inoffensive. Not worth the price, more than I pay for nachos anywhere else, but also bigger than usual, which maybe makes up for that? If my partner and our roommate were to go here for dinner, I pondered, they could probably share a bowl, although I don't know that I would have recommended it.
We decided to get dessert, so my parents went about the challenge of getting a new menu. For a moment I considered suggesting the online menu, but knowing how that had gone with the rest of our food I figured a physical copy with correct information would be better. The menu had a section called “Postres”, which means “desserts”. Despite the S making this word plural, the desserts section of the menu held a single item. This section could have been renamed “Churros”. My mother asked what dulce de leche was. She was impressed that I knew the answer. I did not mention that I had only learned this information earlier that day, when I got churros elsewhere for breakfast.
We got churros. Unexpectedly, they were full of flavour. Churros have a distinct ridged shape, but these were so covered in cinnamon and sugar that their surface was a smooth cylinder. They were hot, which is the best way for churros to be. The chocolate sauce was a bit too thin and dark for my taste, but the dulce de leche was very good and held to the churros better. I was surprised to find that I preferred these churros to the ones I had had earlier, though the surroundings (in terms of sauces and also company) had been preferable at breakfast. Overall, solid churros.
We started to leave. My parents asked if I wanted a lift back to my car, which I had parked a kilometre away due to mistaken directions and a fear of traffic, but I said I would enjoy the walk. They mentioned that they still went out for dinner on Tuesdays, and I was always welcome, and I didn't have the heart to tell them that I have started learning sword fighting on Tuesday nights. As we lingered in the entryway waiting to pay, I noticed the alcoves in the wall, which held candles but were lit from above by inset lights. I thought about the vague, half hearted attempts at authenticity here, about the weak striving for good appearances even though the genuine truth just wasn't there. I thought about going home and taking off the dress I had been wearing today so that I could come here in clothing my parents deemed acceptable. Not for the first time, I wished that the writers of my life story could be more subtle with their symbolism.
Fig 1: A poor, innocent candle, being deprived of its one purpose in life.
I walked back to my car, messaged my partner to say I was on my way home. It was a pleasant evening for walking, but there were few people out enjoying it, even right near the beach as we were; or, perhaps, it makes sense that no one was walking along the road when the beach was maybe fifty metres away. The calm quiet was nice, though. Crying is so much less painful when there's no one around to see.
Mia Margarita is, on the whole, not a place I think I would recommend. For food, there are better options at a lower price point. The location is nice, though, and my parents seemed to enjoy the cocktails, so those might be worth trying. Once again, I find myself recommending chips and not much else, although this time I can at least say the churros were good too. Their various meat products may be good, but I wouldn't know. Love your children. They need it more than you could know.
