A group of people stand arm in arm in front of a bright orange backdrop
JoMando CruzThe three friends behind The Fajita Lounge
A person squeezes salsa out of a large plastic bottle onto tacos on paper plates
JoMando CruzA Labor Day event featured beef fajitas

It’s 4:58 p.m. at The Squeezebox in San Antonio, and the party is already in full swing. Accordions, synths, and gritos blast from a Bluetooth boombox. The playlist, which runs deep with Tejano classics by Flaco Jiménez, Gary Hobbs, and Emilio Navaira, has infiltrated the room, inspiring a large group to dance cumbia before the sun has even considered its descent.

It might be a Sunday, but few are thinking about work tomorrow. Some arrivals look torn as they deliberate between joining the growing crowd of revelers on the dance floor and waiting in the line for food—a congregation already snaking its way through the bar area and around a chain-link fence. At the very front of the line are the three self-described tíos, positioned behind two charcoal kettles. They’re laughing, clicking their tongs to the beat. When the clock strikes 5 p.m., the phones come out, and so does the meat.

There’s a sizzle, a billow of smoke, a cheer. The Fajita Lounge has commenced.

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What is this fête exactly? It is easier to describe it by what it is not. Unlike what the name and merchandise imply, it’s not a bunch of fajitas relaxing on recliners. It’s not a restaurant pop-up nor a charity—though it could easily be confused for both. After all, there is no set date or location, and the only way to find out about its next iteration is on Instagram. But unlike a pop-up, it’s free, and all charitable contributions raised are distributed to causes benefitting local hospitality workers.

Launched in the summer of 2022 by bar maven Aaron Peña—owner of Amor Eterno and Gimme Gimme—the concept began life as a crawfish boil. Wanting to drum up some business for the ailing Squeezebox, he recruited two close chef friends to help cook: Jacob Gonzales of upscale seafood spot Rebelle and Matthew Garcia of Gigi’s Deli.

The gambit worked almost too well, as they ran out of crawfish within the first hour. But Peña was prepared. He pulled out some marinated poultry and fired up a grill sitting in the back. The trio put on a Ruben Vela playlist, grabbed some Modelos, and tossed a slab of chile-seasoned chicken thighs over the flames. When a random passerby asked them what they were doing, the friends cunningly replied, “This is the fajita lounge.”

What was meant as a joke has become a serious way to generate community spirit. And they’ve accomplished that by inviting everyone to the party. “We really wanted to make it accessible because there aren’t a lot of these barbecues going on for our generation,” Peña says.

A person flips tortillas on a smoking charcoal grill
JoMando Cruz

But even if Peña likens the whole conceit to a backyard bash at your tío’s house, these are not your tío’s fajitas. Gonzales and Garcia make their own marinades from onions, lime juice, and “dad’s mixture of spices”—some combination of cumin, garlic powder, and a few other secret ingredients. Topping the meat is a fermented salsa roja heightened by fish sauce and three types of chiles. Other accompaniments include a creamy salsa verde buzzed with avocado, tomatillos, and fresh serrano peppers, as well as flour tortillas from Adelita Tamales & Tortilla Factory, an institution in San Antonio for nearly 100 years. Tossed over charcoal, the tortillas make the perfect casing for a waterfall of salsa, a smattering of coarsely chopped cilantro, and whatever smoke-charred meat is coming off the grill.

What’s cooking on those grates depends on the day and time you arrive. While skirt steak and chicken are typically set out first in this first-come, first-served endeavor, participants are encouraged to bring their own culinary contributions as a voluntary form of payment.

A man in sunglasses holds a large piece of meat over a smoking charcoal grill
JoMando Cruz

“We’ve had a line filled with people with tin-foil packets of marinated meat,” Gonzales says. “It really just keeps the party going.” But guests don’t stop with some proteins to throw on the flames. Others have been known to bring bacon-wrapped jalapenos, tins of Spam, and salsas.

Even though the fajitas go quickly, the party doesn’t stop. The sun has set but Tejano music still blares and the dancing is relentless. At a fall event in 2023, an attendee was overheard talking about his failure to sample any of the evening’s fare. “We gotta make it here earlier,” he laughed. “Oh well, there’s always next time.”

Peña, nodding along to the music, agrees. “People don’t just come here to eat,” he says. “They’re here to support the industry, have fun, and join our little family.” In other words: They’re here to relax. And Peña, Garcia, and Gonzales make that part easy.

From the January/February 2025 issue

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