By Liz Tracy
By David Rolland
By Alex Rendon
By Terrence McCoy
By Natalya Jones
By County Grind
By Liz Tracy
By Chris Joseph
Upon my arrival, the dark-haired lady bartender demanded everyone "be happy today" and threw two Mardi-Gras bead necklaces at me.
At that point, Edward, the barrel-chested Maracas manager, appeared from nowhere. I dropped the beads over my head and cut to the chase.
"So, do you have a Monday night margarita special because Mondays suck?" I asked.
"Yeah, that too. Monday is our busiest night," he hesitated. "Honestly, though? It's mostly to compete with La Bamba. Their Monday night special pulls a big Monday night crowd, but they don't have the DJ or the kind of entertainment we do." He smiled in a way that implied he thought Maracas might be beating La Bamba in the battle for Monday. I appreciated his honesty; crowds will come as long as there's booze in the blender.
Edward continued that Maracas makes an easy transition to dance club. "Also," he said, "Wednesdays is Dinner With the Dogs."
"You can bring your dog to dinner on the patio on Wednesdays," he clarified. They even offer a menu for dogs, and the proceeds from it go to a charity that helps terminally ill people care for their animals.
I thought about bringing my unruly greyhound to Dinner With the Dogs. She always could appreciate a good Milkbone-flavored margarita. Speaking of — I sucked again at my empty drink. And then retreated back to my friends' table to say a lot of alcohol-induced things I would (maybe) regret later.
So there you have it. There is no better place to obtain cheap margaritas, have a color-induced seizure, speak bad Spanglish, surreptitiously reference Jimmy Buffett's "Margaritaville" throughout an entire column, and watch your companion force plastic ornaments to have sex. I promise you, it made me forget that it was Monday. And some people claim that there's a margarita to blame, but I know it's my own damned fault.