When I was 10 years old—after living in Indiana my whole life—my parents moved us back to their home state of Texas. To celebrate, our extended family took us to The Round-Up Restaurant in Pharr, widely considered the fanciest Mexican eatery in the Rio Grande Valley at the time.
I joined everyone around a cramped table, but menus never arrived and our order wasn’t taken. My uncle simply held up three fingers, and a besuited waiter soon appeared with a triple-sized platter of sizzling fajitas stacked high on a bed of chips, beans, and cheese. “Welcome home!” my family shouted in unison, before lancing fajita meat with forks and shoveling handfuls of cheese-covered tortilla chips onto plates.
This was my introduction to a niche RGV specialty: the botana. Though the word—which can literally be translated to “snack”—might be familiar to anyone who has visited a Mexican restaurant outside of the Valley, here it means something so specific you can only consistently find it in Hidalgo and Cameron counties.
LA CASA DEL TACO
1800 Business US 83 East, Mission.
Open Mon-Fri
11 a.m.-10 p.m.,
Sat-Sun
3 p.m.-10 p.m.
956-581-8523
But what is a botana platter exactly? It consists of marinated fajitas lying on a bed of homemade tortilla chips, refried beans, melted yellow cheese, charred green peppers, and onions. It is accompanied by sides of chopped raw onion, diced tomatoes, jalapeños, guacamole, rice, beans, and tortillas. Extras such as flautas or quesadillas are often available.
It’s a communal dish ordered for groups, as the common wisdom suggests it’s best on dates or for accommodating larger parties. You can request a botana for one in a few places, but this is often referred to as the “loser plate,” which I was reminded of in 2014 at Edinburg’s Moonlight Café. When I ordered the smaller portion at lunch, the server’s sympathetic look made it glaringly obvious that the seat in front of me was empty.
According to a Houston Chronicle article published in 1988, the platter was first served at The Round-Up by owner Tila R. Garza. Called “Tila’s Botana Platter for Four,” it cost $4 and featured fajitas as its focal point. Once regarded as throwaway beef cuts served to vaqueros as part of their pay in the 1930s, fajitas grew in stature and popularity over the decades. Flash forward to 1969, and Garza saw the ranch hand staple as a way to meet the demand of serving large families in the Valley.
“Botanas have a special place in my heart,” says Robert Ysaguirre III, who co-owns Anita’s Café in Edinburg with his wife, Erica. “They’re about friends and family coming together and partaking from the same plate. It’s about the memories, the gathering, the stories told around the food.”
Wherever botanas are served, and there is a milestone to be celebrated, that is what’s for dinner. And any dissenting outliers are greeted by clicking tongues—the Valley way of demonstrating gentle disapproval. After all, why would anyone want to break that commemorative spell? That’s what makes it so ideal for wedding rehearsals and birthday parties. It’s especially true at Anita’s Café, with its homey atmosphere accentuated by the Ysaguirres greeting patrons and delivering hot botana plates. Like other restaurateurs across the RGV, presentation is key for the family. The Anita’s botanas are awash in color from the fresh tomatoes, bright yellow cheese, generous dollops of verdant guacamole, and sliced jalapeños resting like rare doubloons atop a gaping treasure chest. “We make them with love and pride,” Robert says. “We want every botana to be beautiful. For me, when I see that empty plate after, it’s a wonderful day.”
Though The Round-Up has since closed its doors, its signature culinary contribution is alive and well at places like La Casa Del Taco in Mission. Opened in 1983 by Sergio Licon, the restaurant even boasts some of the same servers once employed by The Round-Up. After dining at his botana destination for 30 years, I was fortunate enough to sit down with Licon last spring and divulge how special his food was to my family. One of my most cherished memories was a botana platter standing as a centerpiece at me and my wife’s wedding rehearsal dinner at La Casa Del Taco in 1997.
Licon paused and held out his open hand toward me—a traditional Mexican gesture that communicates what words cannot: por eso (because of that reason). This is why he serves botanas, because of moments like the ones my family shared. “That is all my story,” he says. “All of it.”
