“Since 1928,” proclaims Berryhill’s logo and website. Um, that’s a bit of a stretch. Okay, it’s true that a man named Walter Berryhill used to roll a tamale pushcart around Houston in those days. But this Tex-Mex mini-chain is not, we repeat not, 80 years old.

In any case, the musical atmosphere is far more festive than a tamale cart’s, and there’s a full bar, complete with margarita specials, which often hops at happy hour with after-workers. The dinner vibe’s not quite there—it’s unapologetically fast-foodish.

Despite Berryhill’s self-professed origins, the tamales are just average, slightly underseasoned and served with a chile-gravyish sauce. Rice and charro beans are good, the former well-cooked with stock, the latter undersalted but so porky that their smell practically jumps off the plate. But the pride of this chain is fried fish tacos, whose culinary epicenter is found in little shacks along random coastal highways around San Diego and northern Baja California. Their “special sauce” tastes pleasantly like chipotle mayo. Enchiladas are good, smothered in a tangy tomatillo sauce and plenty of cheese; but avoid the cream cheese-filled option. Now there’s something that wasn’t getting served in 1928—and for good reason.

There is one curious exception to our below-average feel rating—the Montrose location. On Sundays, this patio becomes the gay scene’s Babylon with a DJ, fabulous revelers, and margarita-fueled hook-ups. We’re sure the ’20s never roared like this.