Driving anywhere near the Galleria is about as miserable as reliving the terrible events of the Houston Texans' abysmal 2013 season; I shudder at the very thought. The area is always an overcrowded cesspool, swamped with traffic and plenty of tourists trying to find parking for the Cheesecake Factory.
But that's exactly what happened on a recent Thursday-night trek to the west side. Tucked inside an El Patio Mexican restaurant in one of the area's many small shopping centers is a hidden gem.
"Remember the first time you walked into the Club No Minors? Nope? Then we've done our job." That's exactly how the El Patio at 6444 Westheimer describes its "club" on its website. My interest is piqued from the get-go.
"What happens in the Club No Minors?" the site continues. "Seeing is believing but remembering is definitely not required...don't be surprised if you see a person or two dancing on the tables. Yeah, it can get a little wild, but that's how our customers like it."
It all sounds more like a threat than the truth, but I'll treat it as a challenge -- and I happily accept any challenge that involves absurdly strong margaritas and two guys billing themselves as rock and roll mariachis.
Given the tight quarters, reservations are a must; I called beforehand to reserve a table for three. Club No Minors is situated in the front of the restaurant behind a door marked "No Cigars. I.D Required. No Minors." The room looks as if it can't be any more than 500 square feet.
In it are no more than 18 tables and a small bar. There's not much to the place, really. The walls are beige with dark trim, and the light fixtures on the walls were popular when Jimmy Carter was in office.
And yet it's not even 6:30 and the bar is starting to fill up quickly.
"When's the band start?" I hear a businessman ask.
It's a Thursday, what I still consider a "school night," and we order a pitcher of margaritas. After much hemming and hawing, we decide on the lime and strawberry swirl. Our waitress, whose name is America, is so kind as to pour our first round. Although our pitcher is on the table, she makes sure to keep our glasses full.
"God Bless America," we keep saying, as she grins and nods every time. At one point, she even lets us know she has that exact phrase emblazoned on a bumper sticker affixed to the rear bumper of her car.
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