We loved El Tango because we could eat lots and lots and lots of dead animal flesh, which of course is the secret desire of every true vegetarian. We weren't even sure what kind of posthumous organic matter we were eating at times; all that mattered was that there were little chunks of mammalian tissue matter impaled on the tips of our forks, basted to succulent perfection. And it tasted damn good.
We had a large pizza with lots of onions, no sauce, and lots of pig entrails (they called it ham). We appreciated the absence of tomato sauce, as the presence of any vegatable derivative would surely have corrupted the raw, seething power of the Meat.
They were kind enough to not deprive us of the tools of their most glorified trade; we were felicitously equipped with knives that served both to spread the fatty butter and lascerate the recently deceased substance on our plates. These menacing steel implements were certainly not intended for use on soft, submissive vegetable matter, but rather for ripping and tearing through the fatty crevices of a two-pound slab of raw beef. They were especially good for tearing through the sinewy marrow of our most fleshy pizza pie.
Next to the pelts, mounted at aesthetically tasteful angles with the horizontal, were posters and photographs of presumably Argentinian celebrities, along with excerpts from their favorite techniques for cattle branding. The walls also bore several of what we assumed were the choice weapons of cattle combat, including whips, spurs, and hard things on ropes probably used to knock them silly. We found it a nice touch.
Ever seen "Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part II?" The secret to good chili is in the meat.
To be fair, we found ourselves strangely attracted to the idea of chowing down on all those cud-chewing beasts. The pizza really was good, and it was pretty cheap, too. As we recall, we were full after eating only 5/8 of the pizza that cost us only $9.95. They even gave us a box to take home the leftover pieces, of which there were three. It probably would have been better if they had given us three separate boxes, just to make sure the ham pieces didn't join back together and plot to kill us in the back of the car on the way home.
This, by the way, was the first restaurant we have reviewed without using Ryan's car. Does this mean that El Tango is within walking distance? Well, not really--we apologize for toying with all you transportationless carnivore types. Actually, Andy drove, since he just got a car. It's a really lame, ugly Ford, but it only has about 156 thousand miles on it, so he can look forward to a long, quality relationship with this car. Plus, it only cost $5 hundred. If only it had a groovy personalized license plate, life would be too good. To summarize, El Tango probably serves mighty fine food, and the prices are quite reasonable, but the decor leaves a bit of a bovine aftertaste in our mouths. Our waiter was pretty nice, too. Anyway, when you would like some scorched flesh, stop by El Tango and order anything from the menu. You can rest assured that they won't serve you any of that pansy vegetable crap.
El Tango is located at 1077 West Foothill Blvd. It's kind of easy to miss because it's near that scary boat place, and we know just how hard it is to resist the temptation to gawk at it whenever you drive down Foothill.