When dining alone, a mediocre (meaning anything less than absolutely delicious) meal can be cause for a life crisis, especially when one is already famished and in a heightened emotional state. I can remember crying while eating dry, lukewarm falafel with iceberg lettuce and ketchupy-tasting hot sauce on Broadway, watching the street die, silently asking God "Why me?" Similar scenarios involving rubbery, late-night beef hot pots and boiled hot dogs purchased on unfamiliar streets have played themselves out more times than I'd like to admit. But I've found an antidote to these moments—an EpiPen, if you will, to shock me out of culinary distress and remind me of the unparalleled warmth and comfort meals can bring: memories of shared meals at restaurants in which the food is fine (even forgettable), the experience exquisite. Beautiful memories of this sort can be made at Columbia City's El Sombrero Family Mexican Restaurant.
I headed to El Sombrero with two of my favorite ladies for a long-overdue dinner. We were starving and anxious to catch up with one another, so I neglected to slow down for the large steel plates covering sections of Rainier Avenue. We arrived jangled and a little frantic.
There aren't many restaurants that effortlessly make you feel welcome and at ease, that give you an immediate sense that you're a kid sitting giddily in your eccentric great uncle's living room. But El Sombrero is a special sort of place. There's a large collection of elaborately dressed dolls peering down at you from high shelves and enough calla lily decorations for a dozen funerals. One look at the large mural above the (impressively well-stocked) bar—two reclining chili peppers, one red, one yellow, spooning, tips intertwined—and into the eyes of the friendly bartender and you know you are in good hands. Complimentary warm tortilla chips appear immediately, along with housemade salsa—thin and fiery, flecked with black pepper, cilantro, green onion slices, and the occasional overwhelming floating chili seed. A side of bright guacamole ($3.25), creamy and silky, showed up as quickly as two Pacificos and a glass of sangria.
Low-blood-sugar crashes avoided, we sipped and nibbled and took a look around. A mother and daughter ate enchiladas quietly and a pink baby peered over the booth at us. Behind me, a table of four women knocked back margaritas and tacos, the loudest and largest yelling "Oh no she di'int!" El Sombrero is a solid family neighborhood joint through and through—the staff is warm and attentive, the food fresh and homemade. Portions are generous, served on hot plates featuring rice and an amorphous sea of beans. No dish at El Sombrero will disappoint, but neither will it surprise or excite. You come here with friends to discuss the complexities of your job and love life, not the complexities of the mole.
Which is not to say that pollo en mole ($11.95) isn't a fine dish—the aroma of chilies, cloves, and chocolate smothering chicken is one of the most reassuring things in the world. The steak fajita burrito ($9.95), which is approximately the size of my forearm, overflows with grilled beef, onions, and peppers. There's just the right amount of charred bits, making the edges sweet, crunchy, deliciously and vaguely carcinogenic seeming. The combo platter of one tamale and one chile relleno ($9.25) was the food highlight of the evening. The tamale—flavorful strands of beef encased in sweet, wonderfully textured masa—was moist and sturdy. The chile relleno—a dark green and piquant poblano pepper stuffed with cheese that tasted like queso fresco but melted like Monterey Jack, all fried in an egg batter—was a delight. There was still some membrane and seeds lining the poblano, which provided the joyous and unexpected super-spicy bite. I wanted more, more to slice up and force-feed my friends.
The food at El Sombrero should be shared, bites should be swiped from companions' plates, flavors should overlap like voices in loud conversation, and silverware should be knocked off the table while laughing. Te amo, El Sombrero—your food may be on the happy side of unremarkable, but you make my heart melt like cheap cheese on refried beans. 
