For some, the idea of an “authentic” Mexican experience involves watered-down Margaritas in Old Town. For me, it usually includes this afterthought: “I should really invest in a bullet-proof vest.”
This has never rang truer than when approaching the Vallarta Night Club (4125 El Cajon Blvd. in City Heights). With thumping norteño music that can be heard from blocks away, an alleyway where many a shady deal has probably gone down and an adjoining taco shop with both inside and street-side service, genuine Mexican authenticity is at its zenith.
“Just so you know, mijo, I want to be cremated,” said my pal Gusti as we parked. My other partner, the whiter-than-blow Chad, remained dead silent.
“Relax,” I told them. “How bad can it be? Security is patting people down.”
“Fists are weapons, too,” Gusti replied. “Don't get me wrong, I'm always up for a good fisting, but not like this.”
You could almost hear the music come to a screeching halt as we—attempting to imitate a United Colors of Benetton ad—made our way in.
“We're not used to seeing your kind here,” a giggling bartender said as she prepared our beer bucket. “You know? Gueros.”
A sign by the bar instructed patrons to “conserve an adequate conduct” and another warned, “There exists a limit on drinking for your own good.” They took only cash, though, while, inexplicably, the taco shop even accepts Discover.
“At least we got those new Bud Light bottles that you can write messages on the tag,” Gusti whimpered. “It'd be smart to pen our final wishes.”
The ambiance can best be described as a “Mexican cartel's human-stew-making fiesta,” with paisas in Stetson wear, jainas in Ed Hardy, a few characters with the “chúntaro” pointy boots that have been making their way around the web and more beer signage than you can shake a partially acid-dissolved femur at.
Taking in the sights, I noticed a lady resembling a female gremlin giving me the eye. It was well after midnight, and she had a half-eaten tostada in front of her and a drip from the overhead AC unit was landing on her back. Needless to say, I steered clear.
The sound system booming, couples would invade the dance floor during each tanda (a set of four songs), clear the room and then repeat. At its apex, an impromptu line-dance-off to Enrique Iglesias and Pitbull's “Tonight (I'm Loving You)” broke out, with the DJ getting his money's worth with his air-hosound effect.
Giving a wink to Señorita Mogwai, I overcame my awkwardness, threw all caution to the wind and decided to boogie down and, by the end of the night, realized that I'd managed to survive another one of these outings sans a ballistic vest.
But somewhere in a City Heights recycling facility, someone is probably scratching their head after picking up one of my used bottles and reading my last will and testament.