Yes, I went to Aqua Santa. Yes, it was all that. (Fennel and olive and blood-orange salad! The pasta with the clams and lamb sausage and helllllla garlic! Lillet up the wazoo!) But NO, those fuckers didn’t have the Meyer lemon mousse. They knew I’d love them anyway, with their cute little flowery thrift-store granny plates, and their butter-yellow walls and their gigantic kilim as the only decoration in the whole room, oh and their fireplace. I had a passionfruit panna cotta instead. I _guess_ that’s OK.

I also went to Tiny’s, a local [New] Mexican institution. Now, Tiny’s—there’s a restaurant you can judge by its exterior. I mean, with a name like that, it’s gonna be good. And the interior was straight from my childhood. It wasn’t an exact replica of my local of yore, Pete’s, aka “The Home of the Half-Breed,” which was the clever name for the steak-enchilada combo plate. But the spirit was the same, in the stucco-texture glossy white walls hung with bad Southwestern art, with lighting a little too bright in the resto and too dim in the lounge. As an added bonus, there was also a large-scale model train running around the central chandelier, and a vast collection of ceramic novelty flagons, all gnomes and pheasants and Bavarians gathering dust. Every person in the place, man and woman, had very obviously dyed hair.

One brassy lady could be me in 40 years, grabbing her wine glass back from the waitress to take one last sip…even though the waitress had brought her a whole fresh glass. Of course she made a saucy joke about it as she did it—but who orders wine in a restaurant where you’re going to eat cheese and chile and fried dough? Only a serious alkie, that’s who. She looked like she was enjoying her night out with her lavender-haired lady friend, so who am I to judge?

I had a big mess o’ chile and cheese in the form of chiles rellenos, a tasty dish in which tortillas, a typical building block of any NM dish, are replaced by deep-fried egg batter. Brilliant. But any sinus-unclogging the chile might have done was surely canceled out by the mucous-enhancing powers of the dairy products. (Did I mention I’ve contracted a hideous cold? I drive around all day sneezing and hoping I don’t drive into oncoming traffic in that second when my eyes squeeze shut.) But even though my green chile didn’t have the instant-healing benefits it’s usually credited with, it was worth it just to sit there and savor all the New Mexican charm, such as the waitress saying, “See ya, Shorty!” to a guy who really was short, and the sound of a heavy ceramic plate hitting the glass tabletop, just as the server gives the obligatory, “This plate is very hot” line. And the band setting up in the lounge saying, “Testing, testing” for the fortieth time.

And the sopaipillas so hot out of the fryer I couldn’t touch them right away. The waiter even brought me butter with them, which I have never, ever encountered. I tried a little, but, for the first time in my life, I have to say they’re better without butter. Just honey. Coming so soon after saying for the first time that I might’ve preferred walking to riding my bike for one particular moment, I feel like the whole world is sort of slipping on its axis. But maybe that’s just the Sudafed talking.

Speaking of the world slipping on its axis…[rant starts here], I’ve been splitting my time between 97.3 KISS FM and 104.1 (“Latino and proud”) for all my latest hip-hop needs, and I heard the song that officially makes me old and cranky: its refrain and tune is taken from one of my favorite Talking Heads songs, but in this case, it’s about gettin’ with his lady: “Sugar on my tongue/Yippee yippee, yum yum.” Normally this doesn’t bother me—it’s the march of progress and postmodern repurposing and all. I didn’t get in a lather like some people when what’s-their-names used “Every Move You Make” as an RIP for whoever-it-was-who-got-shot. At least they meant well. But dang, I hope David Byrne made some cold cash off his song getting sold out for pure skank.[end rant]

Off to bed. Home soon. Home to the land of pavement, where there is no mud, nor big jumpy dogs. Nor men who wear shotgun shells on their belts. Nor green chile, alas. There’s always a trade-off.

By which I mean I hate when I eat a crappy dinner, and then come out and realize I should’ve eaten at the fantastically gorgeous, well-priced and delicious place just down the block.

I fell victim to my own indecision and hunger, the very thing I hate when traveling with other people. I missed lunch, then sat around all late afternoon emailing and working, and so was ravenous and incoherent when I stepped outside. The animal-hairy B&B owner (herself very nice and clean) had mentioned several places in the area, a couple of which I was curious about anyway, and one new one that I hadn’t heard of — Aqua Santa, right across the street. So I wandered out, and didn’t see Aqua Santa, so bore left toward the other two places I’d been curious about.

But this was C-grade curiosity, really. Both of these places came with warning signs: one had a big photo of mariachis out front, and no menu; another had a menu featuring veal marsala, and hand-written notes of praise, all faded, tacked to its board. The former was totally packed and boisterous-looking, and I didn’t feel up to a Mexican party bonanza, even if it was well loved by locals, as the B&B owner claimed. So I went for the latter, despite heavy misgivings.

In the school of judging-a-book-by-its-cover restaurant reviewing from the outside, from which I like to think I’ve earned a PhD, all its pros could also be cons, and vice versa: dorky name (Dinner for Two…even though they also serve lunch), random location, low-rent atmosphere, low- and high-brow menu (veal marsala, but also an escolar special, with saffron risotto), open kitchen, little white tree lights, chef boasting of CIA credentials on menu.

One or two of these elements could be the sign of a hidden gem; all of them, in retrospect, mean disaster. I think because of Kabab Cafe, which looks a little unpromising from the outside, I have a weak spot for this kind of dressed-down, seemingly amateur setup. I got burned on a similar guess in Montreal last spring, but unfortunately that didn’t spring to mind when I hesitated on the doorsill of Dinner for Two. I just spun a heartwarming tale of East Coast chef trying to make it in the Wild West, and went in.

This was the sort of meal in which I mentally compose a positive-spin review for the guide, trying at every turn to justify it, but really…no. No “If Casa Sena is out of your price range, but you still want some multicourse pampering…” No “throwback charms (entree price includes soup or salad) add value while delivering modern cuisine…” Certainly no “surprisingly good selection of wines by the glass.” My waiter–who said, “Here is my wine menu, and here is my food menu,” so perhaps he was his waiter–was out of my requested Viognier, so brought me another one that was incredibly bad-smelling, in a way I didn’t know white wine could be. He offered another, better one, but it too tasted as though it had sat in the fridge for ages–and I’m not really a picky wine person.

I guess I’m coming off like a snob, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been in such a low-rent but trying-hard restaurant. There’s something odd about a menu that describes a dish as “warmed white bean stew.” I mean, I hope it’s warmed. Did they know they needed an adjective at the beginning, so just used a Mad Libs menu writer?

I usually associate pretentious with extremely expensive, separating-the-elite-from-the-peons sort of restaurants. This was pretentious in the way that the star of the local community theater production of a Mamet play is pretentious. Dude, you’re wearing the same suit the guy wore for Death of a Salesman, and it hasn’t been cleaned, and it’s only your relatives in the audience, and they’re not getting all your cocaine jokes. I appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication, but have a sense of perspective. In the case of Dinner for Two, “sense of perspective” would mean perhaps not playing Handel’s “Water Music” in your industrially carpeted dining room that seems to be inside a trailer. The black tablecloths and red carnations were very Adam Ant. My waiter was wearing all black. The windows were insulated with plastic sheeting.

Anyway, they were trying sort of hard, and that in itself is not a terrible thing. I got the fresh-black-pepper treatment (though not with the largest peppermill I’ve seen so far in this town, to their credit) on my maybe-it’s-even-bottled blue-cheese baby-greens salad (“That’s my favorite,” purred the waiter when I ordered). Then I got my escolar wrapped in bacon, perched atop my saffron risotto and a spray of baby asparagus. On top of it all was a cheesy pink orchid. “Oh, beautiful!” I couldn’t help exclaiming in that horrible contrary way I have, and hate myself for. Surely the guy can see I think it’s heinous. I ate it all. It wasn’t a big portion, luckily. It tasted like when the corporate caf or your dining hall caters a fancy reception. Not totally egregious, but every bit mysteriously tastes exactly the same.

(As a side note, if that escolar does its Olestra-like thing on me, I will be very, very upset.)

Then the dessert course–I ask what they are, but I hear nothing I want. Bananas Foster done tableside–For Two, natch–is by far the most appealing; cherries jubilee is the other a deux option…I thought it was extinct. So then I’m in the awkward position of having to say, “No [none of those things sound good, and I’d rather end my meal with a dry piece of toast than have one of those boring desserts], thanks. Check, please.”

Forty dollars later (wait, wasn’t this supposed to be the bargain option, according to the review I was writing in my head?), I stagger into the street, thinking vaguely how I might feel better if I just threw up. Two nights ago, I spent $40 on a meal in a marginally less dodgy place, but walked away happy–at least then, I’d ended with a really good bread pudding and an espresso with a beautiful crema. That place, Il Piatto (since we’re naming names), was not a superlative Italian restaurant, but it was satisfying–the sort of one-step-above-mediocre place that locals like because it happens to be in walking distance and they know everyone, and the sort of place that visitors appreciate because there are so many locals there, and in the case of New Mexico, it’s not serving enchiladas, which you may be well sick of by Day 4 of your Santa Fe sojourn. At Dinner for Two, I couldn’t tell whether the clientele was local or visitor, but one table (of two others besides me) was riveted by a story of a man who drank tequila with ketchup, as he’d apparently run out of mixers. I think the woman telling it, in her 50s, was maybe recounting a college story, but it could’ve also been from a recent trip to Mexico. It was hard to hear over the Handel.

After Dinner for Two, I figured I’d better put in an appearance at the local piano bar, since it’s right across the parking lot from where I’m staying. I looked forward to nursing a strong drink in the dark. No such luck–Vanessie is the airiest, loftiest, pale-piniest piano bar in eight states, and the crowd was all straight people from some healthcare convention. The white-haired ones were drinking things with creme de menthe, but that’s as campy as it got. I pretended to get a cell phone call and ran out before someone could take my drink order.

Out in the parking lot was when I realized my real error. Or rather, had the salt ground into my wound. Across from the Ikea piano bar was Aqua Santa. Modest sign (why I hadn’t seen it before), in that attractive serif font where the tail on the Q curves under the next letter, and a little silhouetted sheaf of wheat between the two words, all of which are graphic design shorthand for modern, artisanal, hand-crafted. Warm cream walls. Kiva fireplace. Woman with pink-streaked hair listening seriously to older mentor-like artsy woman at one table. A mob of happy, winding-down people at another table, sipping dessert wines. I ask to look at a menu, and the waiter, all young and charming and serious, but not too serious, says, “Here, take it with you…and a card.”

Nice heavy parchment. Minimal use of adjectives. The wine list takes up two-thirds of the page and is all old world. Lillet is the house aperitif. The food is just one or two things in each course, but I could eat all of them: creamy cauliflower soup with Parmesan breadcrumbs. Fireplace roasted beets, endive and dried apricot salad. Linguine with Manila clambs, lamb sausage, bread crumbs and Pecorino. Braised shepherd’s lamb with roasted garlic, polenta and hazelnuts. AND, hell YES, panna cotta with passion fruit and blood orange. Oh, and Meyer lemon mousse. And all of it cheaper than at DfT.

I almost wanted to sit down and eat dinner all over again, but the kitchen was clearly cleaning up. So I asked what days a week they’re closed. Sunday and Monday, alas. So I have to wait two days to dine with my true love. Aqua Santa, I apologize for anything that’s come before, for all my dining indiscretions–I was desperate…and you’d better have that Meyer lemon mousse on Tuesday.