[intro-text size=”25px”]As the wind rustles the parking blocks in arid and scenic Rocky River, Bomba is enjoying a pleasant happy hour, a trickle of guests grows happily into a full stream. All are hungry for tacos, thirsty for rum. The pleasant crowd thinks little of the fragile nature of their safety, paying no mind to the things that may be out there, hungry for their pain and thirsty for their blood. Things like, El Chupacabra. (Note: Cue Spanish guitar.)[/intro-text]
has unwittingly built a paradise for El Chupacabra — a kitchen full of savory lamb, pork, and beef (not to mention duck, shrimp and fresh fish). The smell of the Lamb Barbacoa alone is enough to draw the foul creature miles outside of its territory. The question is not whether an attack will happen, but rather, how will they cope?
The open-air dining room is an atrociously easy entry point, granting El Chupacabra full access to the restaurant. The visible kitchen window also means that there is no barring the bastard from clawing his way right into the food, which will only increase his strength. The only thing standing between El Chupacabra and an unlimited supply of fresh meat (human and otherwise) is the bar.
The bar staff are polite and courteous, but seem lacking in the killer instinct required to tackle such a beast on one’s own. The best they can hope for is to distract it with their impressive selection of 60+ rums and pre-built Mojitos long enough for someone else to take over the space. Thankfully they have that someone.
Working just outside the kitchen, the last man who touches the plates before they are sent to the tables, is a dark man with a perfectly trimmed mustache. The passion and tenacity he shows for the food, correcting orders, sending dishes back to the kitchen, will serve him well when he meets his foe. This is the man I want by my side (or preferably in front of me) when El Chupacabra comes knocking.
Surrounded by knives, pans, and other impromptu bludgeoning instruments, this man is as prepared as it gets when it comes to making perfectly fatty Slow Braised Duck tacos (paired with crunchy pickled onion and pineapple slaw) or killing a mythological predator.
In the end, the moxie of Bomba’s kitchen staff more than make up for the timidity of the bar. I am confident that they would survive this cryptozoological catastrophe with minimal casualties, and that the staff would cook the survivors some damn fine Yucca Fries afterwards.
Pressure Life gives Bomba 17 out of 20 Pints of Goat Blood.