"I remember when El Palomar was the place of action, the knees of bees, the destination for the best Mexican food in the city. With this high vault ceiling it was a cross between a restaurant and a Spanish cathedral. There was a ****. The place started. But here comes the hard part? although I will say first, the Camarones glowed me like a Christmas tree! You were great! And there was a lot like the one fucking dance party on my plate. That means the rice and the beans were beans and the worst attack, the second bowl of the chips had a few larger chips and the rest of the basket were crumbs. I mean, what am I gonna do with it? Honestly, it's kind of insulting. The waitress knows what she gives you. I felt like I was punished for it, although the first bowl appeared before lunchtime. Okay, I get it, maybe they ran out of the nice chips, but they could have said something, or even replaced the bowl when the good stuff came out. Did they think I wouldn't notice? All, the place has fallen prey to the famous location curse, a phenomenon that first documented in 1920 in Marsha Mam's beautiful emporium and food. They were also the popular place to be the place, but they got a certain degree. They counted on their fame, despair of the situation, and the reputation of their humble but extraordinary cook (no chef ever had been at that time? they had laughed about the hubris). Same here. They have customer loyalty and history, and they have atmosphere on the Wazoo, but what they don't have is passion for the product more. You only select it, and it shows. I would give them three stars, but the Camarones were really good, it is like a diamond in a cheap ring, the rest of the meal departs from the final effect."
