Enchilada Chronicles: the Tejas classics at Molina's Cantina

Nostalgia is a helluva drug.

I rediscovered that uncomfortable truth when I set out to revisit the Enchiladas de Tejas at Molina's Cantina, the venerable Houston Tex-Mex spot that's been around in one form or another since 1941.

In this city, that's forever.

I had fond memories of these classic cheese enchiladas smothered in chile con carne from back when Molina's had a Washington Avenue outpost. They were basic and soul-satisfying, with that all-important crunch of raw onion on top.

Seriously, if you leave off the raw onions, don't even bother me.

Too, I loved the two-count-em-two red table salsas that came with a basket of crackly chips, plus a reputable green salsa or (at happy hour) a cupful of runny queso. The "original" red salsa, with its tart kick, was a favorite of mine.

The insanely strong, not-too-sweet-for me frozen margaritas, born in the age before added simple syrup, added to the allure. This was the kind of meal that calls to Houstonians on Friday evenings after work, when Texas ritual exerts its pull.

So: back I went to Molina's longtime Westheimer location on a recent Friday to pay my respects. But something seemed to be missing. The crucial chile con carne was missing a certain red-chile richness I thought I remembered, and—what the?!?—there was no flurry of chopped onion on top. When I inquired, a baby plastic cupful of them appeared before me.

Humph. I ended up pouring most of the "original" table salsa over my plate and dreaming of yesteryear. The room still had that old-timey Tex-Mexican feel that instantly feels like home, the service at the tiny, idiosyncratic bar counter was sweet, the clientele still looked like a Baptist ladies auxiliary's annual fundraiser.

It remained a setting where you could imagine past regulars like George and Barbara Bush causing a stir as they were ushered to their table. Or Nancy Ames, the 1960s television star for whom a baroque version of nachos is named on the menu. (They feature carrots escabeche and pseudo-spicy ground beef.)

However. The Enchiladas de Tejas I had stashed in my brain as a talisman did not move me. I had been waiting for some primitive recesses of my brain to light up, and they didn't.

Molina's is now operated by a third generation of Molinas, and they opened a big new restaurant in West University in 2011. (They now run a third spot in Fulshear.) I had never been, preferring the old-fashioned gestalt of the Westheimer original. Now, as I drove home from that shrine in a funk, I wondered if maybe a different kitchen would deliver the particular thrill I sought.

So a few weeks later, I entered the imposing Bellaire Boulevard edifice housing the second Molina's edition. To my amusement and gratification, the interior looked and felt very much like the Westheimer classic.

There was the warm welcome at the front desk. There was a separate bar section—but the 21st century version was a long horseshoe counter in its own wood-beamed room. It was lined with obvious regulars updated for the setting: lawyers, businesswomen checking their cell phones, singles of a certain age checking each other out over frozen cocktails.

You know what's coming next, right? I ordered my Enchiladas de Tejas. With onions, I specified. Said onions still came in a little plastic cup so that I had to strew them on myself. O tempora! O mores!

And now I had to confront the awful truth: the Enchiladas de Tejas were okay, adequately cheesy and beefy, but they just didn't do it for me anymore. My shining memory of the ancient Tex-Mex thrill they delivered was no match for the plate before me. The chile gravy, with its rubble of ground beef, didn't hold my interest.

I ate them anyway, as one does. Dreaming of cheese enchiladas lost: the archetypal version at the late and lamented-by-me Spanish Village, where the rounded, grippy red-chile gravy tasted of sun and earth; the latterday version at the late and lamented-by-me HiWay Cantina in EaDo, where the chile con carne had a rich complexity I found irresistible.

Nostalgia had failed me. I had nursed it along, put too much stock in my blissful memories. Maybe I had embroidered those memories a bit too much. I know perfectly well you can't step in the same river twice, but something in me keeps trying.

The impulse to chase nostalgia is bigger than me, of course. In uncertain times like these, the thought of some golden past is all too tempting. It's a hallmark of fascist movements, scholars contend. Make America (or Italy, or Russia) great again, and all that. Yet a little dose of nostalgia can feel like a balm when times seem dire, which they do.

As a spoonful of over-the-counter medicine? Fine. As a narcotic? No.

I'm too stubborn (and too needy right now) to give up chasing the dream. I have a new cheese-enchilada totem in mind, and I plan to revisit them soon. I'm talking the version at Villa Arcos in my beloved East End, where the chile gravy sings. I'll report back.