I turned my head away from the gyrating dancer for one second, and there he was! The mariachi singer I had made out with in May was there, on ESPN!!! What?
Emilio. Smiling into the camera, those dark eyes burning with what I imagined was unrequited love for me … Emilio. His hair was slicked back straight from his forehead, the nape of his neck graced by a fringe of crispy, gel-shellacked curls. He was exactly as I remembered him. Hilarious! His number was still programmed into my phone, so I sent the text message: "Did I just see you on ESPN?"
I don't watch ESPN, I don't usually eat at strip clubs, and I only on special occasions kiss mariachi singers: how could these events all align?
I was two Heinekens into a night that promised me gourmet food from a most unlikely source: the kitchen of Shangri-La, a gentleman's oasis. Or, as one local expert put it, a bikini bar. Off Dale Mabry in Tampa — the central strip, as it were, of tittie bars — Shangri-La is the kind of tittie bar that misses the point: no damn titties. But we were there for the food — and I wasn't disappointed.
I had visited for lunch before, and found the food to be quite good. First course was a gigantic bowl of potato soup ($6) adorned with dried herbs of a greenish variety. In the dim lighting, it was hard to make out exactly what else was in it. Those black lights are there to mask cellulite and other imperfections — and they've got the same effect on the food.
But from what I could tell, there were chunks of skin-on potatoes in the mix, and the whole concoction was delicious and creamy. A Breast of Turkey sandwich — as it was labeled on the menu ($7.95) — was substantial, but not overly impressive: hunks of processed turkey on dry toasted white bread. The club sandwich was more of the same ($7.95), but featured some nice, chewy, thick bacon and some processed ham.
But the fries — the fries were the shit. They'd been battered and double-fried, and they were thick, steak-cut and just as salty as I'd hoped the atmosphere was going to be. Yes, that's right — the "Lunch with a View," as the club advertises it on its website, came viewless! There was not a dancer in sight, and the bartender was the only female employee around. She was cute in an affected Velma Kelly (of Chicago) kind of way — but she was wearing clothes. Clearly, I would have to come back.
For dinner, I brought Planet colleague Joe, who sported a baby yellow Cosby sweater. We settled on a meal of filet mignon and lobster tail for myself ($37), chicken fajitas ($11) for Joe, and a basket of those delicious fries ($3.50). And we waited. And waited. One Heineken turned into two, and I visited the restroom — and just outside the door, I was delighted to find a warming tray of pork egg rolls. What kind of strip club hides pork egg rolls next to the restroom? I pounced, whilst a dancer gave me a dirty look (because I was wearing pants?). Emilio had returned my text: "Yes. Whos this." Score! It really was him — on screen, singing at the Alamo Bowl. While we waited, I told Joe tales of the young, hot mariachi man — a ride in his Miata from the restaurant at the San Antonio Riverwalk, with his enormous sombrero case on my lap; his decidedly ungentlemanly move later on. Our waitress came by, hoping to placate us, saying something to the effect of, "I'll get you drunk so you won't care when your food gets here." We accepted, downing her Oatmeal Cookies — Baileys and Goldschlager mixed together, which actually did taste exactly like an oatmeal cookie. The Irish cream, whiskey and peppermint worked wonders until our plates arrived. I was pleased: a medium-rare filet, blackened on the outside and pink in the middle — just how I like 'em. My lobster tail rested on top of its shell, delicate sweet meat that was neither too coarse nor too tough. Rice and grilled veggies accompanied my surf 'n' turf — nasty, dried-out rice and nondescript, forgettable veggies.
Joe, of a milder palate, found himself with a plate of sautéed chicken and peppers, with some factory-made tortillas, sour cream and a salsa that just had to be from a jar. The fajitas certainly didn't meet my Tex-Mex informed standards, but they were definitely tasty and eatable.
And then … my favorite guilty-pleasure song of all time came on: "Bootylicious." Oh yes. And a very bootylicious young woman came onto the stage, shaking her licious booty in ways that defied physics, logic, reason and religion. The top, curvy part started wiggling; the lower, inner curves started undulating; the bottom curve had a rhythm of its own. Damn! We were in a tops-on, bikini-bottoms-only type of joint — training wheels for the real strip clubs — but I'd finally started to feel like we were doing something dirty.
Eaten someplace — or something — dirty recently? Tell me all about it. Food@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Jan 5-11, 2005.