Reconnoitering in our new neighborhood of Ealing, having just handed over deposit on the New Place (or, in British, ‘New Plaice’), we stumbled onup an establishment that insisted – absolutely insisted, via its decor and menu and Spanish-accented staff – that it was a Mexican restaurant.

We knew better, of course.

There is no Mexican food in The Britain.

HOW TO BECOME A MILLIONAIRE IN THE BRITAIN #1: Open a Mexican restaurant that actually serves Mexican food.

Still, our morbid curiosity got the better of us. We are Los Angelenos. We need our Mexican food.

We need it.

We knew for a fact there was little to no chance of eating any Mexican food in the place, but we went in anyway. We were like a drug addict who knows almost for certain that he is about to ripped off by the dealer, but with no other alternative in sight, shuts his eyes puts his head down, and tries to believe in miracles.

There are no miracles in British cuisine.

In an attempt to minimize the psychic damage to come, we limited ourselves to two appetizers – the “nachos with chicken” and the “cheesy chili fries”. The nachos, they could have been worse. Slices of red chili peppers were scattered around savory triangular corn chips and – well done, chaps! – actually covered in real melted cheese. The peppers were hot and tasty, but were unlikely ever to have been west of the Prime Meridian. A small pot which contained a loose conglomeration of salsa from jar, sour cream, and guacamole, squatted nearby bravely. The “cheesy chili fries” were … well, were as expected – french fries / chips sprinkled with a chili powder and dosed with “cheesy” sauce. It’s true the cheesy sauce was the color of cheese, but it tasted like mayonnaisse.

Will we learn the lesson? Will we ever accept the fact that there is no Mexican food in Britain? I don’t know. But standing at the gates of Hell, your denial can run very deep.