So, after work, I started hearing the call from my inner amiga (who wears eyeliner as lipliner, pencils in her eyebrows and ALWAYS wants Mexican food. Simmer down, chola!). Usually that call is punctuated by some light Norteña music, which is horrible, but gets the point across. Anyway, Don and I decided to hit up Las Brisas in Greenwood Village, which touts itself as serving Latin coastal cuisine.
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| Ready to eat some yummy Mexican food, just like Grandma used to do. |
Yeah, I kinda got that when I saw the décor. A special fountain/jungle area near the dance floor (oh yeah, there’s a dance floor, baby) and the white/pastel wicker tables and chairs with backs shaped like raindrops. Hello Miami, circa mid-80’s. I apologize in advance for not donning the obligatory white linen suit and hot pink button-up shirt.
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| Oh, the decor is glorious. Yeah, it's a bit hard to make out the colors, but trust me, this place is a pastel nightmare. |
They sat Don and me down in this dimly lit area, and when I say “dimly lit,” we’re talking nothing but candlelight. Sure, I suppose it could’ve been considered romantic, except for the fact that when we took a good look around (after our eyes adjusted, of course) it was an f-ing blue hair bonanza. We were by far the youngest people in there. WTF? Shouldn’t these people be in bed already? I thought dinner time was between 3:30-4:30 in the afternoon. But I suppose not for THIS sect of sassy seniors. In fact, as I soon discovered, Las Brisas is essentially a high-mileage meet market. It’s like a club you’d find in a retirement village in Orlando.
Two silverbacks were sitting at a table near us and we actually overheard them asking the waiter how to get reservations on the dance floor to sit next to a group of equally silvered-out, frosted ladies. Apparently, every Thursday, Las Brisas is blessed with the soothing sounds of some dude dressed in weird rockabilly attire from 1982 with a hairdo that looks like the lovechild of Donald Trump and Gene Simmons. Dead sexy, and evidently conducive to some serious senior snogging (little blue pill not included).
Anyway, Don and I perused the menu, which is a bit on the pricey side ($15-$18 for entrees, less for combo plates/salads). I went with taco salad because frankly, any salad that comes in a fried shell gives me the smilies. Both horizontal and vertical. But first, the chips and salsa. Surprisingly enough, while the salsa was definitely mild for obvious reasons, it had great flavor. Who knew? A salsa both you and the lady commandeering the Rascal can enjoy. And the margarita I ordered was terrific. Note: they’re VERY strong, so if you’re ever nearby the restaurant and see a Buick or old Caddy pulling out of the parking lot, STEER CLEAR…unless you want to be known as the guy who got iced by someone who could very well be rockin’ adult diapers.
Back to the food. The taco salad was really good. Not spectacular, but it had big chunks of shredded chicken (all white meat), guacamole, tomatoes, sour cream, beans…and a touch of lettuce. All good stuff, and I finished the whole thing. Take that, two old ladies splitting (and gumming) a plate of cheese enchiladas. Would love to show you a pic of the salad, but dining in a place where the only thing brighter than the candle is the patrons’ hair, it’s hard to get a good shot. But take my word for it, it was good and worth the money.
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| There I am. Sipping my marg. Eating. But you can't see shit. At least I added this artistic border, yo. |
So, I’ll admit, this post isn’t so much about the food as it is the restaurant itself. Food? Pretty darn good? Atmosphere? Off the charts if you can remember what you were doing when Kennedy was assassinated. And even if you’re not part of the Baby Boomer set like myself, it’s worth it to sit back, relax with a great margarita, and hope no one breaks a hip while shaking a tail feather on the dance floor.
