After a prolonged, icy winter that left Los Angeles reeling in the permafrost of multiple 62 degree days, the sun finally came out this past weekend, sizzling the Southland up to temperatures reaching triple digits. It was, in short, excellent. To celebrate this change (not to mention the impending weekend), my friends and I decided to undergo some change ourselves. No, we didn’t become trannies. Instead, we tried out a new Mexican restaurant: The Gardens of Taxco.
By now, at least half the Angelenos reading this post are probably chuckling to themselves as the word “new” doesn’t often accompany “Gardens of Taxco.” The family-run restaurant has been around since the seventies and has become a mini-institution in its own right. None of us, however, had stepped foot inside this wood-paneled mecca, despite its convenient location. On Friday, we decided that was all about to change. For once, Don Antonio’s, El Coyote, and Marix Tex-Mex would have to wait. We were tryin’ new Mexican!
Making up the dining party that fine evening were me, J-Unit, and IndianJones. Our fourth member of the Lametourage, Jash, was off in London, surely enjoying some mushy peas and beans. Nevertheless, we pushed forward without him, knowing that even though we were a mere party of three, we could surely drink for four.
Upon arrival at the Gardens of Taxco, or GOT, as I like to call it, we immediately noticed many, many people waiting in line. Would this be El Coyote all over again? Our raging appetites couldn’t, nay, wouldn’t abide by any lengthy waits. Luckily for us though, all these people seemed to be members of larger parties. While they waited for their twelve-tops to open up, the hostess happily led us to a cozy booth where we quietly cheered our rapid ascension and subsequent success in the table-appointment process. I swear to God, we felt like the coolest people in the entire restaurant, let alone neighborhood.
After engaging in some mental finger-pointing at all those chumps still in line, I took a moment to soak in the decor. It was definitely ’70s Chic, but without the irony. The whole place felt like someone’s house. It was almost as if the living room furniture had been pushed out of the way just moments prior. Tables were close together, but despite the proximity, other conversations never felt too obtrusive. Of course, I did get a good earful from the next table over, but with margaritas flowing endlessly, you’re soon too drunk to really notice.
And about those margaritas. They were not your regular blend. They almost tasted like sangria (and I believe I’ve read that they are wine-based). Nevertheless, they were still quite tasty, and they came with the added bonus of packing a lethal punch. The entire time we were slurping down the drinks, we couldn’t help thinking that we’d be seriously messed up very shortly. Maybe that’s why the restaurant serves the pitchers with such small, dainty margarita glasses. They were literally tiny — at least in a normal person’s hands. Since IndianJones has shockingly small extremities the margarita glasses looked body-proportionate.
The glass look small in my fingers…
…and positively tiny in J-Unit’s hands…
…but normal-sized in IndianJones’s.
Another angle.
Nevertheless, along with our margaritas, the restaurant provided tortilla chips and salsa, the latter of which was slightly different than your typical salsa, but tasty nonetheless. I wish I could describe it to you, but alas, that component of my memory fell victim to those beguiling margaritas. I should note that the service at the restaurant was impeccable, and our chips, salsa, and margaritas were refilled at dizzying speeds.
Also on the table was a bowl of pickled crudites. As it was fairly dark in the restaurant, it was hard to see what exactly we were dealing with, but I did detect cauliflower, carrots, and peppers. I partook of a pickled pepper — which, among other things, led to scattered tongue-twister jokes. The pepper was delicious — tangy, salty, and all those other pickle-y flavors we know and love. Unfortunately, the pepper was also loaded with seeds, and it wasn’t long until I was scarfing down even more margaritas to vanquish the burgeoning three-alarm fire in my mouth. Needless to say, this did not help my depleting sobriety levels.
The bowl of pickled wonders.
Eventually, our elderly waiter came around and introduced us to one of the central conceits of Taxco: no written menus. Instead, our guy recited a small laundry list of dishes, from which we were to choose one each. You’d think there’s be nothing too special about this process, but there’s something quintessentially hilarious about an old, heavyset guy with a cane reciting a menu items to your face. It didn’t help matters that he also threw in some of the more flowery descriptions this side of 19th Century Comp Lit. At one point, he informed us that a chicken-in-cream dish was so sumptuous, it was as if the chicken were BORN in the cream! Not really sure how that was supposed to make it more appetizing, but it kind of worked. Of course, none of us actually got the dish, but we appreciated the effort. I should note that I spent practically the entire time stifling a loud, debilitating cackle. I WANTED TO LAUGH SO BADLY. At one point, a smile crept onto my face, but I tried to play it off as if I were just amazingly enthused about the food. I’m sure, however, he saw right through my grinning rictus.
Anyway, we all made our selections: J-Unit and IndianJones ordered Carne Asada while I opted for some steak-and-shrimp combo — I was intrigued by an advertised “creamy cilantro sauce.” And then the adventure began.
A few minutes after having placed our orders, a waiter gave us each a tasty cheese quesadilla appetizer. It was far from a complex dish, but in its simplicity, it tasted great. Kind of like a solid grilled cheese. Not very high-tech, but it gets the job done. Additionally, the accompanying guacamole tasted very fresh. In my excitement, I ate the whole thing before taking a picture. Ooops.
After the quesadilla, the waiter brought out our next course: a brothy vegetable soup featuring a giant meatball. This was probably the weakest of the courses, but it still tasted very nice. It just wasn’t particularly amazing. A vegetable soup can only be so good.
Kind of like matzoh ball soup. Except instead of a matzoh ball, there’s a meatball.
At this point, I expected our entrees to come out, but the kitchen had yet another course for us first: a chicken enchilada, drenched in some sort of cheese sauce. I absolutely loved this dish, even as I felt my arteries crusting over. All three of us actually enjoyed it quite a bit; although, IndianJones attempted to temper our enthusiasm by postulating that the sauce was half Velveeta. He may have been correct, but that hardly mattered. It was surprisingly addictive.
As we waited for our next dish, a kindly-looking man with a guitar came over and serenaded us with some old Mexican song (I assumed it was Mexican as we were in a Mexican restaurant). It was very pleasant, and he encouraged audience participation, but since neither IndianJones nor J-Unit were giving this guy an inch, I decided I would be the one to lend my vocal skills (thanks, margaritas!). Fear not. I didn’t have to sing. I just had to make a shrill rolling-tongue sound when cued. Cut to me sitting there going “RRRRRRR!!!!” at random intervals. Luckily, I did have some semblance of dignity, and I stopped about halfway through the song. When the guy finished up, we clapped, and amidst our applause, we all traded looks. You know the type I’m talking about. The sort of look that says, “Are we supposed to tip him?”
Sure enough, the guy just STOOD there and smiled at us, quietly expecting that which could not be requested. This led to further panicky eyes between us as we silently realized, “Uh oh. We ARE supposed to tip him!” It was a strange moment. We were all exchanging looks for confirmation and yet avoiding looks so as not to be stuck with doling out the money. All this while trying to ignore the growing black hole of awkwardness that came from having a guy just standing there, waiting.
In a shocking turn of events, IndianJones then reached for his wallet and handed him two bucks. This was amazing since IndianJones rarely, if ever, voluntarily parts ways with any money, let alone for a musical tip. Clearly he was drunk too. I don’t think that singer knew just how lucky he was. Nevertheless, photos were taken, and we were ready for our next dish.
Even awkward moments can have happy endings.
At last, our entrees came out, but by this time, we were rapidly growing full. Between the quesadillas and the soups and the enchiladas and the pickled veggies and the four baskets of chips, stomach space was dwindling at an alarming pace. Still I tore into my dish, which I enjoyed. Was it great? No. But it was very tasty, and certainly, I had no regrets. The chunks of steaks were seasoned nicely, and the rice and beans were similarly flavorful. The real star of the dish, however, was the shrimp, whose creamy cilantro sauce certainly stood out among the others. Granted, pretty much any creamy sauce will be awesome, but regardless, I was very happy with my selection.
Yeah, it was too dark for me to see all that oil in the restaurant…
J-Unit and IndianJones had mixed reviews for their carne asadas, but mostly positive. They both felt their cuts were a bit fatty, and they lamented a lack of flavor on the outer edges of the meat. However, as they got into it, the dish improved, and ultimately, they were satisfied with their food.
Carne Asada.
After the course was over, we were just about to loosen our belts when suddenly, THERE WAS MORE. Specifically, flan. Yes, it was dessert time, and we were treated to not just a lovely little helping of flan, but also a complimentary glass of cherry wine. Or at least, I think it was cherry wine. Whatever it was, it was sweet and thick. Typical dessert drink. I liked it. I didn’t love it, but I thought it was a nice touch, and of course, I always appreciate unexpected booze. J-Unit and IndianJones, however, detested it and left theirs over.
The much-maligned libation.
Awesome flan. Sadly, I tore into it before taking a picture of its previously flawless surface.
As for the flan, it was surprisingly delicious and practically overshadowed the entire meal. For nothing else, it was worth all the food for the flan. Then finally, finally our feast was over. Best part of all? Excluding the margaritas, it was a reasonable $25 a head. Not bad at all. And as an added bonus, the hostess was sure to stop us before we left and hand us an after dinner mint. Doesn’t sound like much, but damn, it was a good mint.
Best Mint EVER.
Overall, it was a super fun experience, and definitely a great value. However, I wouldn’t necessarily make it an everyday Mexican destination. It is a bit of a production, and sometimes, if you just want some tacos and that’s it, the better option is probably El Coyote or Marix or my personal favorite, Don Antonio’s.