Sunday, November 7. House Of Blues Brunch. The Worst Mexican Restaurant I've Been To In A While. Driving Home With The Saints. The wedding festivities for nephew Mickey and his bride Lisa ended this morning with a brunch at the House Of Blues in Houston. It's in a new complex in a part of town where the number of whole-block parking lots says urban renewal. Inside, the place has that intentional Blues Brothers look of an abandoned warehouse on the bad side of town where musicians your parents don't want you listening to play on the sly.
We were late in arriving, as the Marys intended. They had another meal planned later. The food here was like you'd find at the Marriott Courtyard breakfast buffet, but good enough, and I did indulge, if mostly for the juice and coffee. Here also was a chance to meet the bride, who eluded me at the big reception last night. And talk to parents and grandparents.
Mickey and Lisa met while they both worked at Pappasito's on the south side of Houston. Pappasito's is a Houston-based chain of some fifteen or twenty slick Mexican restaurants. The Pappas brothers also own several other restaurant concepts, including Pappadeaux, a mock Cajun eatery. The couple's familiarity with Pappasito's was handy for the Marys. They were looking for a location for lunch. But the only one on our route, Mickey and Lisa told us, was the Pappasito's on I-10 East. Jude and I went there a few years ago and found it so terrible that we still laugh when either reminds the other of that meal.
The Marys were happier with this Pappasito's stop than I was. The eager server was excited that numerous new dishes were to be had. The flaming queso, for example. This must have come from the Pappas brothers' Greek roots: the idea is a lot like saganaki. Except saganaki is not usually burned to charcoal on the bottom, as this was. The server said it was supposed to be that way. Their target with this dish needs to be reviewed.
The Marys were mainly there for chips and salsa. Mary Leigh was thrilled to discover that wafer-thin chips (how thin is a wafer, by the way?) like the ones she loves at Uncle Julio's were also here. So was a salsa cooked enough to change the color, texture and flavor. She also got an order of guacamole, made tableside on a cart. With this, they brought out thicker chips; the wafers would not have withstood the stress of the chunky avocados. It was decent, but didn't have enough tomatoes in it for my tastes.
Mary Ann ordered a plate of tamales. The fact that the platter held only three of them should have warned here that these were not the old-style little Manuel's jobs, but a sticky porridge of masa and meat inside corn husks. They looked and tasted awful.
For me, cheese enchiladas, rice, beans. Nothing special there, but I had actually eaten the brunch and wasn't hungry.
I will never come back to this place, no matter how much the girls whine about doing so. They have been well brainwashed by the chain restaurant industry, and I will not allow them to infect me with that problem.
As she did on the way out, Mary Ann declared that there would be no stops during the three hundred fifty miles from Houston to home. I didn't tell her, but we would indeed be stopping, if only for gas. As it turned out, we stopped twice. Her motivation was that she wanted to listen to the Saints game. Which we did. WWL came in a little scratchy but easily audible from the moment we left Houston all the way to New Orleans. The Saints beat a pathetic team that sounded like the old Saints.
The I-10 is in better shape than it was the last time I came this way. Not nearly as unpleasant. On the other hand, I wasn't driving. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm becoming a complete wimp. The more I think about it, the less I like the answer.
