We stopped by Jim's Nachos today, in the former location of Shake's on Granny White Pike. Perusing the menu of standard-issue Tex-Mex, Mr. Pink reasonably cut to the quick: “If I'm in a place called Jim's Nachos, by God, I'm going to order Jim's Nachos.” So when our server arrived, I asked for a full order of the eponymous dish.
“Jim's Nachos?” she repeated timidly. “Do you want them over rice?”
“Just nachos, please,” I clarified, as Mr. Pink sheepishly hid his smirk behind his water glass.
A few minutes—and two bowls of insipid salsa later—our order arrived. Fajitas were predictable and a bargain at less than $7. Tacos al carbon had the disappointingly unadorned flavor of, well, beef. At least the condiments were plentiful, if not homemade.
“Stop reaching for redemption,” Mr. Pink said, as I tried to accentuate the positive.
And then there were Jim's Nachos. A pale, monolithic plate of about eight wilting chips, topped with chunks of skin-colored meat, all sitting in a coagulating pool of white queso. Not even a salutatory sprig of cilantro to break the jaundiced monotony. Not what we expected, to say the least.
But then again, when you hang out with a guy like Mr. Pink, you come to expect a lot from a name like Jim.
