For the Drinans second night out since the birth of Baby George 13 weeks ago, we met up at El Serape, a little Mexican hacienda on Weymouth Landing. From the outside, the restaurant looks as suspicious as Marion's Shoes, like a front for a more unseemly venture. (Perhaps the sale of illegal lawn darts, Bags?) Inside, however, it is festively painted in vibrant oranges, yellows and turquioses reminiscent of Dora the Explorer's bilingual talking house. On Saturday night, the place was packed. Right after we were seated, a strolling mariachi tore into the Cuban patriotic anthem "Guantanamera." One of the waiters harmonized along -- as did James, who after a few Dos Equis, experienced a total lyric recall from Mr. Player's spanish class in high school.
Over some guac and tequila, we had great discussions of the "newborn haze" and how the Sundance Channel's documentary "The Drug Years" kind of makes you want to take drugs. Then, Mike D. was suddenly distracted from his steak fajitas. He turned a cynical eye toward the musician and wondered aloud, "Is this Pearl Jam?" While it was a little difficult to decipher, the mariachi was indeed playing Pearl Jam's "Last Kiss" -- "Oh Where Oh Where Could My Baby Be." It was Pearl Jam with a dash of cilantro. Only on Weymouth Landing, noted Jimmy.
After dinner, we headed to Burton's Grille for a nightcap. The bellicose short guy from Thursday night was nowhere to be found. If he were, I'm sure Mike D. could have whipped up a nice barroom brawl for dessert.