“This is better than any Enchilada you’ll ever get at a restaurant”, said founder and head chef, *** ****. After wolfing down thirds of *******’s staple gastronomical special, I couldn’t help but concur with new it-Chef, *** **** of the Annex’s own, *****.
Located in the 17th floor of a decrepit post-modern chic lofto-raunt, the interior of ***’s is sparsely decorated, making it impossible to focus my brain-buds on anything but the belly timber. And brombre was the BT ever substantial. The main course, a double barrel shotgun of mouth blasting chicken enchiladas, accoutremented by a massive helping of buttered up, day-old brown rice, all stuck to my gut like a mouse, inhumanely trapped and tortured by a Walmart glue trap. That being said, I had no qualms with demanding the head chef to bake me up a third enchi; even if it meant interrupting him in the middle of a sweet True Blood eppy; the one where Sooki shows off her perky tay-tays and makes it with a buxom she-wolf.
The appy, a zesty guacamole, tasted exactly like chunky lemonade with floating bits of onions and tomatoes. However, the President’s Choice blue tortilla chips were actually quite decent; not expiring until early 2011.
After letting the food settle in the refugee camp that is my tumack, one replete with pizza-pop carcasses, and rotting buffalo chicken tenders, the Enchilada meal from *** was a more than welcome addition to the digestive hell that is always one powerful push away from sharting up my skinny cords.
So was it the best enchilada I ever paid for? No. But only because I didn’t pay for it. I give the e-lada meal at *** ‘s a rating of 4/5.