This Tuesday I was delighted to learn that Margaritaville, the eternally chill restaurant in which frozen margaritas flow like slushy, teeth-numbing green rivers, would finally becoming to New York City. Because ever since Señor Frogs left Times Square last year I’ve been looking for the perfect venue to drunkenly consume and then shortly barf $45 nachos to a soothing soundtrack of calypso.
Real estate blog the Real Deal reports that a developer is very close to sealing a deal to build a Margaritaville hotel and restaurant in Times Square. I was psyched to hear more details about the growth of my favorite restaurant chain from the horse’s mouth, but a Margaritaville spokesperson declined to comment on the plans. And then, again in an Eater article on my favorite new Manhattan locale, I read: “Margaritaville did not immediately respond to request for comment.”
I must ask Margaritaville: what are you hiding?
Night after night I stand by my microwave, cooking your signature frozen Jammin’ Jerk Shrimp (8 oz), as I stare at the wall, my eyes glazing over. I think of what joy a Margaritaville in my own city, what they tend to call The Big Apple, would bring me. How I could eat your delicacies not alone in my apartment but surrounded by friends and family, slurping watery margaritas out of elaborate curly straws that I will then take home, wash, and reuse on another special occasion.
In January, plans for another NYC Margaritaville fell through. And now you can’t even comment on our future together? Because while you may claim there’s a woman to blame (for not getting a NYC Margaritaville sooner), I know: it’s your own damn fault.