Getting fresh at Café Caubo
CATEGORIZED AS: Mr. & Mrs. Eater
Years ago, I heard a standup comic on the radio doing a monolog about his experiences as a waiter in a Mexican restaurant, serving a customer who obviously was unacquainted with the cuisine. It went something like this: “What’s a tay-co?” he said, exaggerating the patron’s Southern accent. “Well, it’s meat, lettuce, cheese, beans and salsa wrapped up in a tortilla.” “OK, then what’s a burr-it-o?” “Well, it’s meat, lettuce, cheese, beans and salsa wrapped up in a tortilla...”
You get the idea. Of course, those of us who have lived in the Southwest for an appreciable length of time and who love Mexican food are well aware of the subtle differences between these and other dishes. We also know that using these staple ingredients, it’s kinda difficult to mess up Mexican food – and when somebody DOES screw it up, we know it. Our taste buds are quick to detect the freshness and authenticity of ingredients and fine-tuned flavor combinations common to our favorite foods from south of the border.
This is not to say that all Mexican restaurants and the foods they serve are alike. To the contrary, they are as different as a taco is to a burrito is to carne asada is to ceviche is to a chile relleno is to a bowl of menudo. Moreover, with our growing Latino population in Southern Nevada, we have more options for Mexican food than ever – from fast-food type eateries to fancy sit-down restaurants, all with their own specialties. So, when Mrs. Eater and I went out for Mexican one evening recently, we had plenty of options at our disposal – but even with so many choices, we decided to pay a visit to our local Café Caubo.
Ordinarily, we make a conscious effort to avoid chain restaurants. Not that we are total snobs—heck, there are times when even a Chili’s or an Applebee’s can surprise you with a decent, quality meal. Sometimes though, when you’re hungry, you can’t help but avoid a chain restaurant, even though it may be a lesser-known chain that those mentioned above.
A while back, Las Vegas earned the nickname “The Ninth Island of Hawai’i” in deference to the number of Aloha State expatriates who now call Sin City home. Estimated at anywhere from 55,000 to 65,000, these folks—for one reason or another—have traded in their sandy beaches, balmy tropical climes and lush rainforests for our dry desert heat, cookie-cutter suburbs and urban cacophony.
In a town like Las Vegas, few things are allowed to grow old. Fact is, anything that has been around more than a couple of decades is considered antique. For example, the implosions of such hotels as the Dunes, Sands, Landmark and Aladdin reflect our out-with-the-ancient, in-with-the-old-and-implodable-in-20 years mentality.
I have a dirty little secret: I like eating dinner while chillin’ on my family room sofa. It’s nice and soft and leather and affords a great view of the TV, so I can chow down on…whatever, while I catch the latest sports action on ESPN. (My wife does the same, except she prefers HGTV from the recliner while chowing down on…whatever.)
Once during a trip to Palm Springs many years ago, my wife developed a sudden craving for fish and chips. Nothing else would do; not prime rib, not Mexican, not even her beloved broiled salmon. So we pretty much drove all over the Coachella Valley in search of a place – any place – that could satisfy Mrs. Eater’s jones for British soul food. Luckily, we found a mom and pop that featured her deep-fried heart’s desire, complete with malt vinegar and optional cole slaw. And thus, our evening – our entire trip – was saved.
