Diablo Royale: Where Eating is a Sin

In an effort to maintain objectivity, I am usually not inclined to immediately disparage a grossly lackluster meal in a fit of disgust and disappointment. This time I simply have no choice.

As you would expect, I am extremely weary of the mirage of Mexican joints in this city. I’d be lying if I said my stomach didn’t cringe every time I walk by a Burritoville, where behind the windows sits some poor soul laboriously knife-and-forking his way through a goiter-sized burrito hemorrhaging oodles of processed cheese that quickly coagulates as it contacts the stone cold pond of brown slop blanketing the dish. It’s not that I don’t appreciate a giant burrito (God only knows how many I’ve ashamedly put away), but a sixth sense of mine tells me I’m better off not getting one here. Not to pick on Burritoville, but this place, and others like it, are the bane of those looking to perpetuate an enjoyable “Mexican experience”. Still, it is these images that help us distinguish the gross from the best. I thought so anyway.

Diablo Royale is a sharp looking Mexican Cantina in the West Village that lures you in with dim lighting, distressed wooden high tables, and a busy bar. Equipped with the age-old, strangely unpopular, yet often reliable “judge a book by its cover” mentality, I had every reason to believe that this place was legit. After all, at $14 for tacos, it better be good.

It wasn’t.

In short, Diablo Royale, quite simply, bit the big one. Our waiter’s deflating indifference coupled with a litany of smug remarks was a blood-curdling one-two punch that made me want to throw a chicken breast at him a la Gordon Ramsay ("It's F***ing Rubbah!!"). This not being enough, his insistence on referring to Meghan as “my love” was as patronizing as it was pathetic. Regardless, my seasoned ability to overlook a bad attitude for the (expected) greater good of the food enabled me to move on. After all, this meal would be about the food…unfortunately.

Meghan’s Chicken Enchilada arrived as a blob of tortilla, sparsely adorned with a perfunctory presentation of lettuce and tomato, and a squirt-bottles-gone-wild splattering of sour cream. Who’s working back there, Jackson Pollack? I've seen leftover half-eaten falafels on MacDougal St that are more pleasing to the eye than this irreverent middle-finger to a classic which was accompanied by a side of tepid refried beans...this is never the answer.

In an homage to Jerry Seinfeld, I ordered the Ensalada Grande (The Big Salad), which was a disappointing mix of baby greens, cherry tomatoes, cucumber, and what the menu refers to as “house cured” olives, topped with pieces of flank steak that can only be described as sad. Aside from the paltry helping of tangy queso fresco, the sorry-looking strips of meat appeared pre-cooked, were bone-dry, and fully divested of any texture they may have had before spending the afternoon in a tin waiting to be reheated for the dumb schmo who ordered it. There was no way this meat was cooked to order, and at $16, that’s just plain insulting.

As early adulthood escapes me, I have begun to adopt the wisdom embedded within my father’s dizzying repertoire of anecdotes, insight, and age-old adages. In doing so, I often find myself directly quoting, if not eerily channeling the man, and Diablo Royale was a perfect example.

“Meghan, take a look around.”

“Why?” (perplexed at the lack of context)

“Cause we ain’t comin’ back”.


Diablo Royale
Food: C- (Poor quality at rich prices)
Service: D+
Ambiance: C
In a thought: A “Royale”