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If there is one point around which food snobbery coalesces, it is authenticity. If it doesn’t seem like it’s made by your mama from Chihuahua or your nana from Nanjing, some people just don’t want to eat it. And if there is a cuisine that draws maximum ire in this regard, at least locally, it is Mexican. Me, I’m not going to kick a crunchy-shelled, ground beef-containing creation out of bed for calling itself a taco.
Fajitas, now that’s another story. I don’t understand fajitas, and I don’t like them. But if fajitas must exist in this world, then the sizzle is integral. So when, at Barrio Cantina, the fajitas arrive silent, room temperature, no smell of onions wafting upward, we fall silent, too.