So, I've been doing a lot of soul searching. After a couple years of playing the field—and doing some serious waffling—I am finally ready to commit: You, Las Americas, are my favorite restaurant in Nashville.
On Saturday night, still nursing the evening traces of a mild hangover, I splashed hot sauce on a taco as the dude with the electric-acoustic guitar sang way too loud and Spanish-language music videos flashed across the mounted TV screens and I knew: Our love is the real thing.
Or maybe it was the first bite of that tostada de camerone—marinated shrimp, tomatoes, onion and cilantro paired with a squirt of lime and a sliver of buttery avocado—that really pushed me over the edge.
Then again, it could have been the bean and cheese pupusa—gooey on the inside, topped with heaps of tangy cabbage slaw, salsa verde and hot sauce—that set my heart aflutter.
Wait, maybe it was the bill: $17 for a Coke, the tostada, two pupusas, four tacos and a sope topped with pork al pastor and queso blanco. (No, I wasn't dining alone.)
Even more likely it was dalliance with another—a thoroughly mediocre meal at Local Taco where the flour tortillas (Corn 4-eva!) were a leaden sheath for not-so-exciting fillings (What does a girl have to do for a spattering of cilantro? Maybe a zip of crema or a squeeze bottle—or three, like at Las Americas!—of killer salsa?)—that made me realize just how special you are.
I love you. Don't ever change.
XOXO
Lee
