Mexi-Can't

This food is so familiar, so last-decade, it's scary. I guess you could argue that classics never go out of fashion, but I still had no clue why anybody would want to eat at Cantina when there are dozens of delicious, authentic, cheap taquerias between home and PGA Boulevard. Or if Whitey is too jumpy to sup with lots of brown people, the excellent Rosa Mexicano is just up the road (although here, incidentally, the clientele is as racially diverse as a Benetton ad).

And then, ya, I got it! This is botanas for the budget-strapped, picadillo for the picky, camarones without cojones. I looked around at the plump, pale, hungry faces. As our waiter dumped our leftovers into a carton, a calm settled over me. If I had a couple of kids and a doddering dad to feed on a Sunday night, I realized, I might very well hie over to Cantina and beg for a stiff drink from the bar (offering a good selection of tequilas), assuaging my dulled appetites over chicken fajita salad, secure in the knowledge that there'd be plenty of leftovers tomorrow to refeed the whole squalling brood. The lighting is low and the booths are comfy, anyway. Bring on the margaritas!