Audio By Carbonatix
There will be good Tex-Mex and rumors of good Tex-Mex. Mostly
rumors, though—at least in the Dallas area.
It’s a sad fact: apart from some fabled taquerias and a few notable
exceptions, Tex-Mex restaurants in this part of the world survive on
mediocre cooking and the forbearance of diners. They don’t need to try
harder because tacos and such are considered comfort food, and people
avert their thoughts from puddles of orange grease, pasty yellow cheese
and commercial seasoning.
Opening a Tex-Mex joint in Dallas, in other words, is like getting
accepted into Arizona State. You don’t need to put in much effort, but
congratulations and a degree wait at the end.
So Agave Tex-Mex in Flower Mound fits right into our comfort
zone. I’ve heard positive comments from those who live in, or for some
reason venture into, the vast grid of Mapsco pale orange. But the
restaurant’s fish tostadas are singularly disturbing—like a Texan
adaptation of seafood salad sandwiches, if served by a school
cafeteria. Chunks of “fish” (can’t tell which kind, although the meat
tends to be a grungy white) in a pool of mayo dotted by some other
stuff sit on crunchy, dry tortilla rounds. Salt struggles against
nondescript flavors and a fatty texture for the right to define the
entire experience. The results of this fight can be nauseating.
As I mentioned, people say the place is pretty good. Yet under the
“Enchiladas” banner, their menu lists tamales, as well as something
called the “old-fashioned,” which they liken to tacos. How a kitchen
treats masa and its meat or cheese filling says a lot, so on one visit
I opt for the tamales.
“Oh, we’re out of tamales today,” the waiter informs me.
Really? No tamales on a Saturday, traditionally one of the busiest
days of the restaurant week? Maybe you ordered enchiladas from the
purveyor by mistake.
The old fashioned consists of tortillas filled with under-seasoned
ground beef—you can also choose beef strips—formed into
taco-shaped pockets and deep fried. The effect is quite heavy, aided
along by bulk products like rice and refried beans. Because they clamp
the shell shut, additions like lettuce and tomato end up in a side
salad pile, without dressing. In fact, they don’t (or didn’t on this
occasion) even deliver a sauce to break up the fatty monotony.
For a restaurant banking on the name of owner Lisa
Galvan—formerly behind Luna de Noche—and star power
financing from Tony Casillas of Dallas Cowboys fame, you might expect
more—if you are still caught in the local Tex-Mex spell, that is.
Occasionally the kitchen delivers flashes of talent to justify
statements from ownership about their Tex-Mex place serving the “best
Mexican food in the metroplex.” Their chimichanga, for instance, looks
quite nice dressed in a burnt orange paste and drizzle of white. The
crust is layered like phyllo and almost as delicate. Reasonably tender
fajita-cut beef fills the inside, so the combination should be
impressive. But a dull funk oozes from the meat, and the sauce is far
too timid to bring color to the dish.
Of course, the chimichanga originated in Arizona, not
Mexico—it can hardly count against the “best Mexican” claim.
Their version of xochitl, on the other hand, appears to justify such
confidence, striking consistently wonderful notes: seasoning held
neatly in check behind the warm and hearty chicken stock, onions adding
a sharp kick, avocado smoothing things out—it’s a starter worthy
of some contemplation.
If only they’d give you the time.
Judging by the restaurant, things shut down in Flower Mound shortly
after sunset on school/work nights. Agave Tex-Mex locks up at 9 p.m. By
8:30 on my first visit, all unoccupied chairs were propped on tables, a
staff member hustled to sweep the floors and we had been prodded three
times by waiters employing the “there’s no rush” tactic.
Hmm…if there’s no rush, why slap the check on our table? In fact,
why bring out entrees long before we finished off the appetizers? I get
the feeling Flower Mound runs a strict curfew. If you’re caught in
public after 9:30 p.m. or somewhere thereabouts, you end up writing
Johnny Cash songs in the city jail.
It’s not like the space is very welcoming to begin with. The dining
area resembles a cafeteria at one of those white-collar prisons:
glossed floor of dark concrete, tablecloths of the same color, a darker
ceiling, booths brightened by a few shades. And just getting to the
suburban oasis can be an annoying gauntlet of backed-up traffic,
stoplights and construction zones. On a Saturday afternoon, I had to
root around—Mapsco-less—for side streets leading toward the
restaurant or face a 1 mph creep to the intersection. A woman at the
next table had a shorter trek but the same level of frustration.
“I hit every red light on 407,” she tells her friend. “Ran one of
them; I figured the worst they could do is give me a ticket.”
Yeah, or you could die in a crumpled Kia—which doesn’t sound
so bad after 30 minutes sitting on Justin Road waiting for the radiator
fan to kick in before your coolant boils over, listening to Jack FM
play the same crap, wondering why this spot of prairie-turned-shopping
center/subdivision/shopping center/subdivision exists. The night
servers edged us out early; I had to listen as clean-cut young couples
at the next table debated which Bible lessons to ready for their kids.
The ride out and the watered-down margaritas made me so desperate for
entertainment, I almost launched into a lecture on the virtues of
socialism, just to drive the good folks away. Instead, we settled into
more family-friendly topics, in order to blend in.
You know, why topless models are right to stand up against gay
marriage, how fat former drug addicts could save the Republican Party,
that sort of thing.
So, in essence, you get cued to leave by 8:30 on weeknights, and
traffic on weekends will make you contemplate a game of chicken with
soccer moms. If you manage to live, the reward may be “J.C.’s shrimp,”
a plate of large butterflied shellfish, heavily steamed and soaked in
rust-flavored sauce until the meat almost dissolves into seafood
porridge. On the other hand, you may end up with a delicate appetizer
of jalapeño rellenos. Mild green—chiles rolled lightly in
dough, halved and pan-fried, so a crisp veneer of crust dances across
the skin. On top, crumbled bacon brings a nice, smoky point to sharp
cheese. It’s tempura, Texas-style.
Once in a while, the place surprises you. For the most part, well,
let’s just say it fits in with the rest of this area’s Tex-Mex
scene.
Agave Tex-Mex Grill 5801 Long Prairie Road, Flower Mound,
972-355-0044. Open 11 a.m.-9 p.m. Monday-Thursday, 11 a.m.-midnight
Friday, 11 a.m.-1 a.m. Saturday, 10 a.m.-9 p.m. Sunday. $$-$$$
