Okay, perhaps 4:00 in the afternoon isn’t technically date night, but bear with me.
Mr. R. and I went out this afternoon in search of pyrotechnics to supplement our Independence Day celebration. Initially, we thought to visit one of the little roadside places that spring up prior to a holiday, but alas, the state of Florida in its infinite wisdom apparently passed a law banning the sale of fireworks from the same tentlets that seasonally sell pumpkins and Christmas trees.
Which is why we found ourselves in an area of West Palm Beach not normally within our scope of peregrinations to shop at the nearest Skyking Fireworks retailer. To say that they ran like a well-oiled machine would be an understatement. Before we entered the store we were waylayed at a small tent in front of the door where I had to present my driver’s license which was subsequently photocopied onto an application wherein I promised that any fireworks I purchased would be used for agricultural purposes. Ahem, yes, those damn gophers. Once inside, there were many extremely helpful associates who recommended various products to fit our desired levels of ka-boom, ooh, and aaah.
But that isn’t really the story I want to tell. Having skipped lunch and not really wanting to return home to cook something for dinner, Mr. R. made the suggestion to stop at a little Mexican place he’d previously visited. My heart leapt within me–Mr. R. rarely agrees to Mexican food, which is one of my absolute favorites.
So we stopped at Los Catrachos in West Palm Beach on Military Trail at Gun Club Road. Once seated, we flipped through the menu and realized that while perhaps the restaurant was once Mexican, it was now Honduran. Which means no enchiladas, tacos, black beans, or margaritas…Sigh.
Nevertheless, through much pointing and dramatic gestures (our server spoke no English and the little Spanish I know I learned by watching telenovelas) we ordered pressed sandwiches (Mr. R. had bistec, I had the regular Cuban sandwich) and fries. We came to realize that this was a thriving Latin neighborhood and we were the only ones in the place who spoke English. I’m thrilled to say the food arrived hot and was delicious. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted but I love to believe in happy accidents.
The bottom line is, if you find yourself at Military and Gun Club, pop into Los Catrachos for some amazing authentic Honduran food. And maybe bone up on your Spanish first.
Oh, and I haven’t forgotten that Mr. R. totally owes me an enchilada combo plate and a big-ass margarita. But he’s good for it. After all, I know where he lives.
Adventures in Date Night 