Dallas has gotta lotta nerve, sending San Antonio, the home of Tex-Mex fergawdsake, a taco joint—even if it does claim chilango creds. They equate barbacoa to beer and chile-braised beef, there’s a jalapeño zucchini sauce, there are guacamoles that have ingredients such as cranberries, and passion-fruit vinaigrette. Get a rope!

Well, maybe just a pen. Not all updates are inherently heretical; it’s all about execution. And here’s where there are serious problems. The “Puerto Ceviche” being unavailable one day, the waiter belatedly suggested the crudo with ahi tuna, pineapple, and other slivered stuff. No taste, terrible texture, a disaster. “Would you like it cooked?” offered same server, innocently. It was downhill from there in a selected taco trio: adobo-marinated arrachera? Also no flavor. Beer- and chile-braised barbacoa? Only a touch tastier. Orange slow-roasted carnitas “D.F.”—unlike the local norm, pre-pulled for our pleasure—were the best of a sorry lot. “Reforma” guacamole was fresh and chunky but gratuitously picante, a side of roasted corn with lime cream was encouragingly smoky but otherwise uninteresting; blanco beans are somebody’s idea of a stiff bean dip.

But the various strip chips are quite good, and the several salsas that can be had for a pobre 25 cents apiece are a steal. (Cuidado: the peanut habanero is incendiary.) The interior finish-out is simple and pleasant enough, but we suggest salsas, chips, and a “Clasica” margarita with damiana liqueur on the patio instead.