Somewhere on the high, frozen plains of North Dakota lies Calaveras Junction, a town so stubbornly remote, I half-expected to dine by oil lamp and semaphore. But no. Nestled between a Cenex station and a taxidermist’s co-op, I found El Toro Borracho , the region’s only Spanish restaurant — and, I daresay, the only one with a mounted bull’s head, an adobe fireplace, and flamenco guitar looping on Bluetooth, all under a roof with icicles like medieval weaponry.
The décor is nothing if not committed: terra cotta walls, wrought-iron sconces, and a hand-lettered chalkboard offering phrases like ¡Sabor auténtico! and Toro Tuesdays! One cannot fault their enthusiasm.
To my surprise, the sangria was the highlight of the evening — a seductive mix of citrus and cabernet with a whiff of something faintly floral (lavender, perhaps, or desperation). For a moment, as I swirled my glass and listened to the speaker warble Besame Mucho, I was transported — not to Spain, mind you, but to a decent tapas bar in Albuquerque.
The paella, however, brought me crashing back to the prairie.
It arrived in a skillet wide enough to double as a sled, piled with saffron rice (more yellow than golden), shrimp curled like question marks, and mussels whose shells opened only grudgingly, as if protesting their exile from the sea. The chorizo was oddly sweet, the chicken oddly missing, and the rice — alas — bore the distinctive crunch of something cooked in haste and scraped from the pan with a prayer.
The waiter, a chipper college student in cowboy boots and a matador vest, described the dish as “our regional twist.” I asked him what region he meant. He blinked.
For dessert, I foolishly ordered flan, which arrived in a ramekin so chilled it might have been stored in a snowdrift. It jiggled with enthusiasm, if not dignity, and tasted faintly of vanilla and freezer burn.
If you find yourself stranded in Calaveras Junction during a blizzard — and I admit this is not improbable — do visit El Toro Borracho. Order the sangria. Drink deeply. Then order a second and feign fullness, lest the kitchen get bold.