Houston Food Blog

Photo by rpongsaj

​Okay, confession: It's been years since I went to a Taco Cabana without the aid of a much-needed designated driver. But the bell tolls for all of us, and tonight it's my turn to drunk-sit and someone else's turn to drag me there for tortillas and queso.

Walking into the Kirby and 59 location, I notice it's both brighter and smaller than I remembered. After talking a couple friends out of ordering margaritas (it's unfortunately just shy of 2 a.m.), combining a couple of tables in the corner, and alternately laughing with my friends and staring daggers at the food pick-up spot in hopes of making it ready faster, I start talking to the only other people in the dining room (there's a couple in club wear sitting on the patio): three guys who say they're in town for a cricket tournament. They're really friendly, and when the table response is, "So that's kind of like baseball, right?" they are great sports.

​Finding a parking spot 15 feet from the front door of Brasil is always a good omen. It's Saturday night just after 11, and with no special event or performance, the place is at that serendipitous time when there are enough tables to make the place feel lively, but few enough that a conversation still feels private.

While Flight of the Conchords plays over the sound system, we harass the barista about the caffeine content of a chai latte (moderate), which desserts go well with coffee (not the chocolate ones), and how big the appetizers are (huge). It is a primo patio night, mild but not quite cool, with the slightest crispness in the air. There's a couple (not a particularly happy one, either, judging by the body language) sitting in one corner, three vaguely Middle Eastern guys deep in conversation near us, and two hipster chicks on the far side of the patio near Westheimer. No one in the building looks over 25.

​There's a scene in an early Sex and the City episode (yeah, I went there) where a guy frequents a particular restaurant with a girl he's embarrassed to date because he knows no one will see them there. If anyone could use a similar place in Houston for a late weekend bite, look no further than Midtown's Gotham Pizza (2204 Louisiana). When we showed up an hour before close, not only was there not a soul in the place, but the two employees look surprised to see anyone walk in the door.

The menu says the pizza is "Sicilian-style," which I always thought meant a thicker crust, but here it means a pie that is large, thinnish but not crispy and foldable, with a doughy crust. I would actually describe it as "Brooklyn-style," but whatever. We ordered it half sausage-and-mushroom and half alfredo with spinach, garlic and artichoke hearts, a combination I was surprised and pleased that the kitchen could work with, considering the mixed sauces.

​On Saturday nights, Taqueria la Tapatia has the craziest music mix. For every two Tejano love songs played, they play one song -- to use the term loosely -- of throbbing, Eurotrash techno. Let's just say it's an odd soundtrack for a burrito. Given a choice, I'll take the Tejano, because the waiters will occasionally dance to the rhythm when they think no one is looking. Around 10 p.m. the crowd is sparse, mostly scattered in booths near the window, but by midnight it's pretty hopping, especially in the tables between the bar and the flat screen. There are plenty of purple-clad LSU fans glued to the screen, but also a family or two and the requisite undergrad with heavy books who's ignoring his surroundings entirely.

​For such a small space, the Coffee Groundz has a United Nations-like ability to bring together a crowd of people who normally operate in different layers of the social stratosphere. The front of the bar is sparsely populated by midnight, with a few solo guys working on the laptops and a gay couple cuddling across from two girls discussing their relationships. Boston Legal plays silently on a flat screen above their heads. The second TV screen has attracted a crowd of bystanders who are watching the end of the Texas Tech-University of Houston game, occasionally erupting in spontaneous cheers. It's apparently a good night to be a UH fan.

Photo by Sarah Rufka

​It's hard not to love a place where everything comes with pancakes. Walking into 59 Diner after a night of partying is like stopping in a recovery room. Everything is bright and blindingly clean, dishes are cheap, big and full of alcohol-soaking carbs, and the waiters have the patience of saints or preschool teachers, not batting an eye when someone, say, re-enacts the "Single Ladies" dance in an aisle. They just smile, step around you, and recommend the pancakes.

Photos by Sarah Rufka

​When it comes to restaurants, I generally think costumes are a bad sign. It says to me that instead of getting, for example, Mexican food, you are getting "Mexican food." So when greeted at Spanish Flower by a young woman in a Three Amigos version of traditional Mexican dress, I'm amused (okay, very amused) but a little disappointed.

Tables of young-ish white people line the walls, but we are seated in the middle of the room. It's a little bit unsettling, and adding to the impression that we are the center of attention is the fact that we seem to have two waitresses. Their timing is so uncomfortably off, it's almost comedic. One takes our drink orders and asks if we want queso, and as soon as we decline and Waitress No. 1 disappears, Waitress No. 2 sneaks up on the other side to see if we'd like any chile con queso. Kids in Mexico hawking chicle on the beach could learn a thing or two about persistent sales tactics from these smiling servers. Of course, viewed less cynically, it could be just an overeager attempt at good service -- the offers of refills are so frequent, I'm almost convinced there will be an upcharge for them, but I'm happily proven wrong when we get the ticket.

Photo by Sarah Rufka

​Timing is crucial for the late-night food lover: No one wants to be the first at an after-hours party, but waiting in line is a guaranteed buzzkill. Time it just right and you can leave the bar, stroll into Late Nite Pie -- positioned perfectly in Midtown -- and order a Shiner before last call.

The waiters are friendly (ask them about their tattoos) but not exactly the quickest, so it's always good to stick to a simple slice or one of the named pies. We go with the Italian Stallion with sausage, pepperoni, roma tomatoes, garlic and a creamy Italian dip, as well as some garlic sticks. The sticks are truly that; long and thin, but more hard and dense than crispy, these are only advised for those who are too famished to wait for the pizza. The pizza itself is tasty and perfectly respectable, and the light, doughy crust -- it almost tastes like sourdough, but the waitress says no -- tastes great dipped in marinara.

Photo by Sarah Rufka

​It's not exactly cool outside, even at close to midnight, but it's even warmer inside CoCo's Crepes and Coffee (218-A Gray St., 713-521-0700). The heat emanates off the pastry display cases and lingers in the air inside the vaguely Italian-inspired pocket-sized shop. Luckily most of the tables and most of the patrons have found themselves quite happily situated outside.

We grab a Chinese checkers board, which sits untouched through our meal as we lose ourselves in deep conversation and sugar high-induced giggles. An attractive trio under an awning has taken advantage of CoCo's bring-your-own-wine policy and another couple munches on some late-night panini while oblivious to the outside world. Actually, you could say we're all oblivious to anything beyond the radius of our table. Call it a crepe-induced haze.

Photo by Groovehouse

​It's such a victory to walk into a joint -- especially a tiny place like BB's Cajun Café (2710 Montrose Blvd., 713-524-4499) -- and snag the very last table, and a corner one at that. The other tables seat small groups and some couples; a pair of cops chills at the one oversize booth. I'm sure eating at BB's is a great strategy for being ready for any craziness at the Montrose-Westheimer corner, but also, it seems anywhere you see police hanging out, you know the food will be cheap and tasty.

Our food ends up being pretty cheap and different degrees of tasty. The spicy seasoning on the blackened catfish couldn't quite cover up a bland-tasting fish, but the boudin poor boy was inhaled, punctuated only by occasional swigs of water because it was so spicy. Although, is a sauce-free, dry poor boy really a poor boy?

Photo by Christine ™

​I know Katz's really plays up the 24-hour schedule -- even the logo declares that Katz's Never Kloses -- but walking in just before midnight, I wasn't expecting a hostess or a 10-minute wait to be seated.

The place almost feels like a suburban chain restaurant, with a calibrated kookiness provided by haphazard collages of photo booth strips. But then again, those places would have the chairs on the tables and the lights out by now. And the crowd is eclectic and fun--along the bar sit women wearing feather boas, and my friend gets enthusiastic compliments about his T-shirt, which has a picture of two unicorns humping under a rainbow. Ah yes, this is Montrose.

Photo by portmanteaus

​At night, the glowing red signs in the oversized Chinatown parking lot where Chez Beignet (10623 Bellaire Blvd) sits have an ominous quality. But with vibrant yellow umbrellas over the patio tables and strands of miniature icicle lights surrounding the doorway, Chez Beignet exudes a warmth lacking in its neighbors.

Inside, the ordering area is basic, but there are some signs of effort, with a forest of fake plants, Tiffany-esque light fixtures and oversize posters of Paris clichés. Yet the house is packed. Every table, inside and out, is full of Asian families, teens and groups of all sizes. There's a nice, chill energy -- everyone seems to be staying put at their tables, either deep in conversation or, in a few cases, playing cards.

Photo by Sarah Rufka

Emily Grymes

 Ah, the steakhouse: full of red meat, dark wood and, traditionally, men. So upon meeting Emily Grymes, the crackerjack barkeep at Fleming's, we have to ask if she felt like a girl in a boys' club. "In certain restaurants I've worked at, if you were a bartender, you were a man. But here it's different, because I think Maeve [Pesquera, the owner] recognizes there needs to be a balance, particularly in steakhouses, which historically have been sort of male-driven, at least as far as the clientele goes. It's interesting here, because four out of our top six positions are held by women, and we have a female-driven bar," Grymes says.

"Every once in a while we'll get an older gentleman that will come in and tell me very seriously, 'I need to speak to the bartender,' and they'll suggest we get a man back here so they can talk about sports." Grymes laughs and points to J. B., who's working the bar with her. "J. B. is Malaysian, so unless you want to talk about cricket or soccer, you're stuck with me."

It's happy hour, so I request a white "cosmo drop" off the new "5 for $6 until 7" menu. Grymes, ever the seller, is ready to put Fleming's deals up against any others in town. "The place I went this weekend was using well vodka--not even our well, worse than our well--these have Grey Goose, Ciroc, Ketel One, top-shelf stuff," she notes. "It's bringing in a younger working crowd in their twenties and thirties, and more women. Men used to come in and ask where all the women were. Now they complain because there are women here, but they can't get a seat."

Photo by Katharine Shilcutt

Bayou Goo at the House of Pies

It's an existential dilemma: What is House of Pies without a sense of irony? What if you woke up one afternoon and discovered a late-night guilty pleasure of negligible culinary quality but spectacular crowd-watching was... respectable? Since the smoking ban, the place no longer has an aura of stale cigarettes (though that's no guarantee your waitress won't), but the fabulously tacky wallpaper remains.

Photo by Cortney Martin

Tacos A Go-Go and its next door neighbor, The Continental Club

The first best thing about Tacos A Go-Go is the flood of sweet, sweet air conditioning that hits you as you walk in the door. The red metal tables and folding chairs would make a perfect setting for a pair of old men playing dominos, but right now all but one are empty, either because it's a holiday weekend or because it's not yet last call. The girl at the counter is friendly and ready to offer advice on the best taco plate combination. Conclusion: one pollo guisado, or spicy shredded chicken, and one picadillo, or ground beef, as well as a plate of pork tamales.

But before they show up, we dig into some chips and salsa. The chips are fine, though nothing to write home about, but sonnets could be written about the chunky salsa, which has a hint of smokiness. The tones of habanero pepper are like crack for taste buds: You can feel the heat as it ever so slightly blooms on your lips and down your jaw, but you just...can't...stop. Before the chips and salsa are completely inhaled, our order makes an appearance.

Photo by Sarah Rufka

Even 15 minutes before its midnight closing, Teahouse on Shepherd has nary an empty table. One would think a tired employee would grimace at anyone new walking in the door, but the guy on duty is surprisingly friendly. Someone uninitiated to the bubble tea scene could easily waste these last few minutes looking over the menu, which has more than 100 offerings, from lemon kumquat dried plum black tea (#151) to peppermint honey green tea (#66). Luckily, the top sellers are highlighted on the wall behind the counter, and it's from there I make a quick selection: coconut cream tea, no tapioca. One sweet sip, and I understand everyone's good mood. It's an instant pick-me-up, either from the sugar or the caffeine.

Photo by Gini Reed

Pulling up to Dot Coffee Shop off I-45 will remind you of middle-of-the-night bathroom trips at Howard Johnson's during marathon road trips (even if watching Chevy Chase movies is as close as you've come to touring the country via highway). The oh-so-'70s neon sign on the building reads "Steaks, Shakes, and Pancakes." Yes, please.

Inside, the restaurant is narrow but bright and clean, and something of a mystery. It's obvious that the place was decorated in the '70s, with wood paneling, amazing eight-sided hanging light fixtures and the pièce de résistance, a mallard-duck-themed faux-stained-glass window. And yet, the overstuffed vinyl booths are unblemished: no holes, no tears, no cigarette burns. Booths at Chili's are more worn down than these, which means either a) the booths are magically self-healing, like that girl on Heroes, or b) somewhere, there still exists a plant producing and selling '70s-style booths. Both possibilities are equally frightening.

At Max's Wine Dive at 10:30 p.m., it is the rare table that doesn't have wine on the table. But having had enough, our group just orders food.

Around the table, attractive couples lean toward each other in those annoying, tiny bar tables over glasses of white wine. It's mostly couples except for us and a trio of girls all carrying those enormous hobo handbags. No one is eating, which is a shame. For the price of one totally delicious appetizer, they all could have their feet on the ground, maybe suggestively brushing ankles, instead of hanging on to glorified stools for dear life.

We get the Max and cheese, pan borracho (also known as "drunk bread," very fitting) and the grilled cheese sandwich. The Max and cheese comes first; it's curly-cue (okay, cavatappi) pasta in a truffle sauce with a mozzarella, gruyere and Grana Padano cheese blend. It's good, but not amazing. You can't argue with truffle flavor, but the sauce seems thin. Maybe Max's is a victim of its own success -- it isn't offering the only upscale mac in town anymore.