The sign on the door reads: “Beware: Our Food is Habit-Forming!” But there are so many other warnings that would be equally appropriate. For instance: “Chest Paddles Encased Within: Break Glass in Emergency”

One glance at the menu suggests that the prices are what draw the corpulent masses: $4.99 huevos rancheros! $4.99 migas! No filthy cheapo, the strip-mall suite is clean and sort of nice at daytime (when natural light replaces the hospital-depressing flourescents), done up in burnt orange seats, wrought-iron wall hangings and copious plants. A bustling, mechanized people-trough, the staff ushers folks to a table mere seconds after it has been vacated, with a hasty wipe as they sit; it moves seamlessly from cleaning to pouring to scribbling orders and dropping plates. Salsa, hot and decent, is refilled with the impressive automation of one of those top-hatted drinking birds.

The basis for nearly every dish here is artery-clogging American cheese, particularly in the popular enchiladas, where it acts as coating, filler, and base. These; oily, soggy “crispy tacos;” and tamales are virtually indistinguishable from each other, thanks to an ocean of cheese, beefy gravy, and refried beans. Excess extends even to flautas, which are filled with fatty barbacoa instead of the usual dried, spicy beef. Eggy breakfasts perform well as coma-inducers, but the migas could use some green chile help. Margaritas are awful, weak and lemonade-y, so don’t bother. Remember, you’re just here for the cheese.