When I think of Mexican food, authentic Mexican food, my thoughts often travel back to a fourth floor, rooftop patio in Tijuana a few years ago. It was late at night, nearing closing time, and a friend and I went outside for some fresh air when I saw it. Back in a darkened corner was a little shack with one window, light barely escaping into the night. Near the top of the shack, in neon, was one word - Food. Well, after a night of drinking and dancing, I was ready for something to eat. Stepping up to the window I see a tiny old man, surrounded by bowls of meats and cheese, little piles of fresh tortillas and fresh vegetables everywhere. So much food surrounded him I could barely believe he could move enough to make his burritos, tacos and flautas. And flautas are what I chose. Little cigar shaped fried tortillas sitting on a bed of shredded lettuce, cool chopped tomatoes. Dollops of sour cream and guacamole separating the flautas from warm, creamy refried beans topped with melted farmers cheese. While not what people think of when they think of Mexico, that little shack on top of a nightclub in Tijuana had some of the best Mexican food I have yet to eat.

It was with this memory in mind that I visited Chile Pepper. A brightly painted Mexican restaurant with blue trim and a little man in the window of the kitchen just waiting for my arrival. There was no one in the place when I walked in so I got the pick of the seats. I chose a table near the window, a gentle breeze blowing in, and waited for my server. Turns out, the cook was my server. He was very attentive, immediately bringing me chips, salsa and water. The chips were slightly stale but the salsa was fresh and had a slight smokiness to it from the ancho chilies, which complemented the cilantro nicely. This is where my meal took a wrong turn.

I ordered the Flautas ($8.75). The menu tempting me with descriptions of chicken, sour cream and guacamole. My thoughts turn back to Tijuana and crispy tortillas and shredded chicken. What arrived, looked good, but in reality were bloated tortillas filled with something that could loosely be based on chicken. Shredded it was not, chopped it was not, chunk style it was not. It was, however, a pulverized mush that tasted faintly of a chicken. Only the beans masked the processed, institutional taste. while not nearly as bad as the flauta they were runny, and lumpy but had a nice chili powder flavor. The rice that came with my plate could only be described as “Boil-in-Bag” as it was simply white rice studded with the occasional re-hydrated pea or carrot. The saving grace was the guacamole. Fresh, cool avocado blended with tomato and herbal cilantro but it was too little too late. My dinner was done.

And quite literally it was done. By this time an ancient Mexican woman who uttered not one word replaced the cook as server. As soon as my napkin hit the plate it was swept away and the bill was presented to me (There was only myself and one other guy in the entire restaurant). As soon as I put down my credit card it was taken, along with the last quarter of my beer. No thought was put into asking if I might want to finish it. I guess I was done and as far as I am concerned, so is Chile Pepper. I guess, until I can get to other Mexican restaurants in town, I’ll have to continue to enjoy my Tijuana memories.