The Cantina addressed a big problem on the island: the lack of a Mexican restaurant worth a sopapilla. It made some awfully devourable tacos, these tasty little gut-bombs that just seemed to beckon you, with tiny, guacamole-flavored kisses, to come feast upon them. There was porky goodness, beefy goodness, chickeny goodness.
I'm back in the U.S.S.A for six weeks, come back, and the Cantina is closed down.
It's, like, what's the worst thing that could come from having a douchebag for a president? You think, "nothing much," go along your way, and then BAM!
No tacos.
I guess you could tell me to go down the road to Red Hot Chili Pepper restaurant, but like many, I tired of the band after the second album. Everyone knows Flea was better when he was on heroin.
The Cantina was a great hangout, a great place for live music. I could walk there, I could sometimes walk home, I loved the food (did I mention tacos? And burritos?), I love Brad and Tiff, and there's a little more suckage in the world now that it's gone.
And it goes without saying that we didn't need more suckage.
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