For anyone who was born and raised in Denver, especially all you westsiders, the above snap should be instantly recognizable.

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It's been at least twenty years since I stepped foot inside this Mexican compound that still commands thirty-minute waits on a Saturday night and still squiggles its frozen margaritas with whipped cream. And its signature menu item, while not nearly as good as I remember it (in fact, it's not good at all), continues to keep the kitchen winded.

Can you guess where I'm reliving my youth?

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