“Gimme a large Bob!”
You may have seen this bumper sticker around town. If you know Matt’s El Rancho, you know what it means. Matt’s is still the home of Bob Armstrong dip. It’s still closed Tuesdays. You can still find books of matches there. Matt’s still knows that a margarita straight up is never a Mexican martini, with or without salt. And the beverage is still an honest one of the old school. At Matt’s there’s still a choice of sherbet or a praline for dessert. If an item you love has fallen off the menu, somebody at Matt’s still knows what it is and somebody still knows how to make it for you.
At lunch today, all was as usual. The only thing different was that we didn’t happen to see any friends at other tables and we didn’t happen to notice anyone of local or more widespread fame. The tables varied, but on view was all of Austin: office-workers out early; two-, three-, and four-generation family groups, some at very large tables; work-crews active in the various skilled trades, young mothers out with their friends and everybody’s babies and older kids; superannuated fraternity guys in their polos and ther Luccheses; and everybody and anybody else who’s still in town for the weekend. The vehicles in the lot varied accordingly: working ones, large American luxury cars, European roadsters, an old International Scout, road-worn Suburbans and gleaming Suburbans that are detailed once a week, and Scions and Minis.
Tomorrow at 10 am, there’ll be an Easter-egg hunt in Matt’s parking lot. The food’s for everybody, but the egg hunt is for kids only.
I don’t understand what the fuss is about Matt’s margaritas. They put Everclear in them, which aside from not being purple, makes them basically the same as Baby A’s. Big deal. Personally I think Polvo’s are better.
Can you please explain what you mean by “superannuated fraternity guys in their polos and ther Luccheses”? Are these retired frat guys drawing pensions? Or obsolete frat guys, whatever those may be? I suggest you look up big words before attempting to use them.
Maybe it’s because there’s real lime juice involved; maybe it’s because the waitstaff doesn’t ask whether the patron requesting one straight up means frozen or on the rocks; maybe it’s because the drink doesn’t come to the table with an olive in it. And, yeah, “superannuated” would be people of retirement age, old, past it, but still showing all the evidence of former Cowboy-dom even if you don’t know the names and the faces, but you do. Once a frat boy always a frat boy, however wizened; once ancient, ever more ancient, but the marks of tribal membership remain, accompanying the obsolescent to the grave.
Everclear = Casita Jorge’s not MER