[zilla_tabs] [zilla_tab title=“Results”] Well, here we are. Albu­querque (and every­one) has spo­ken, and Brian Herrera’s strange, hys­ter­i­cal review (#5) will be this year’s win­ner! We’ll see that he’s pre­sented his $40 in Fron­tier Rolls (or tor­tilla soup or enchi­ladas or what­ever his Fron­tier Favorite is) this week. And his text will appear in An Under­ground Guide to Albur­querque #6, prob­a­bly around page 63. Thanks to all our review­ers, and to all who voted! This year we got more sub­mis­sions, and we’re thrilled to see what hap­pens when we open vot­ing to the pub­lic: 315 votes speaks pretty clearly. Stay tuned for #7, when we do this all over again. We encour­age you to spend the inter­ven­ing 49 weeks sketch­ing and refin­ing your mas­ter­piece – and know, as ever, we’ll accept it any time. [/zilla_tab]

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It’s that magic time of the pro­duc­tion cycle again, and we’re look­ing for the Duke City’s best take on the Fron­tier Expe­ri­ence. In the last five years, we’ve heard about the acid-heads in line, the after-show thugs, George Lopez, a tor­tilla machine inhab­ited by the spir­its of Catholic grand­mas, UNM exam study marathons, head­bangers and clipped overnight hours. Last year, con­trib­u­tor and friend of the Guide Damien Flo­res took top hon­ors, brag­ging rights, and a hefty gift cer­tifi­cate to our favorite hang­over ICU. Now it’s your turn.

Deliver us a review of 250 words or less, and we’ll put it up for a com­mu­nity vote. Get your friends to vote for you (1 per per­son), then take them all out for a pyra­mid of Fron­tier Bur­ri­tos (or what­ever you can get for $40 worth of smoth­ered Fron­tier good­ness). When you’re done digest­ing, we’ll print your review in this year’s book and on the web, call you out directly in the text, and con­fer on you VIP sta­tus at our Decem­ber release party. Submission’s easy: send it here or post it on our face­book page.

Sub­mis­sions are open from Wednes­day, August 10, 12:00 PM to Fri­day, August 26, 11:59 PM MST. All sub­mis­sions are avail­able on this page. Vot­ing begins Mon­day, August 29.

Not sure how to write a review? Stuck? Look­ing for a prompt to kick things off? We got you. Our patent-pending Guide to Writ­ing for the Guide walks you through more than 50 qual­i­ties in a venue worth talk­ing about, and is avail­able 24/7.[/zilla_tab]

[zilla_tab title=“Haters!”]You’d think any­one who’s ever come in con­tact with the Fron­tier would melt into a crock­pot of over­whelmed praise. You’d think across the myr­iad faces of civ­i­liza­tion, the men­tion of the 505’s titan of medium-speed din­ing would bring rum­bles to the tum­mies of babies, and tears to the eyes of par­ents. But, shock­ing to us as to you, there are a few hold­outs yet. And they’ve got our email. So here they are, edited only for gram­mar. Click to the next tab for the – ahem – real sub­mis­sions in our 2011 ULTIMATE FRONTIER REVIEW CONTEST.

1. Bob Lucero:
As a life­long res­i­dent of ABQ, I have seen the Front go through innu­mer­able changes. I remem­ber com­plet­ing an acid deal in the front room over a break­fast bur­rito and a cig­a­rette. Then you could only smoke in the back half while eat­ing break­fast #2. Now, you can’t smoke within 30 feet of the damn place. Oh, God, the fuck­ing cof­fee. I swear it was weak Fol­gers until they got real locally-roasted beans. Now, hit or miss, but with enough sugar and creamer…

A lot’s changed over the years. They started clos­ing! This was a heavy blow for chile addicts every­where. Where the hell are the sprouts? What that fuck’s with the shred­ded car­rots? I con­tend that the carne adovada bur­ri­tos have become smaller, while the price has gone up, and to this day, I will get a flame burger and hash browns with cheese, smoth­ered with ranchero sauce. Those pots are still scald­ing hot, at least, and if you’re not from here it’s some­thing you have to work your intestines up to.

I hear Luc Lon­g­ley has Sweet Rolls Fed-ex’d to Aus­tralia. God, I miss that guy. Any­one know if he still owns the Raddison?

2. CN:
As a kid who grew up in the NE Heights, the Fron­tier always felt like it was on Mars. I never had any love for it. I’m 30 now and haven’t been there since I was 16. I have never under­stood why peo­ple love the sticky sweet heart attack buns or the cheap food. I guess it’s great for col­lege kids who don’t mind stand­ing in line for an hour to get a $3 grilled cheese, mediocre even for the cheap price. I remem­ber it always being full of smok­ing, coffee-drinking, effete Goths and home­less peo­ple, even at 2 in the after­noon. Sure, they’ve out­lawed the smok­ing, but the ser­vice is still worse than Vil­lage Inn. And no one ever got shot at the VI, so they still stay open past midnight.

3. Josh:
It’s an Albu­querque insti­tu­tion that per­haps has more hype than it deserves. It never feels all that clean, there’s often a long wait, and the prices are higher than what you might expect. But a few reli­able menu stand­byes (notably the break­fast bur­ri­tos, fresh orange juice, and sweet rolls) keep this spot near to the locals’ hearts.[/zilla_tab]

[zilla_tab title=“Praisers!”]These are the droids you are look­ing for:

4. Don McIver:
Okay, it was a long time ago. Younger, and quite a bit wilder and I (after one too many joints, too many beers, a line of coke, and two strong cups of cof­fee) decided that I had to have it. At four in the morn­ing, I could sneak in the back door, wire cut­ters in hand and sim­ply clip the wires hold­ing the pic­ture to the wall, heft the frame and out the back door.  If I timed it right, I could have the thing out in a mat­ter of min­utes. And the thing, the huge John Wayne paint­ing in the 3^rd room of the Fron­tier would be mine.

Instead, I came in the wrong door, smelled green chile, then stood in line.  I bought a cin­na­mon roll and bur­rito, which I promptly smoth­ered in green chile, and moseyed back to the 3^rd room only to see a table full of fire­men and cops, all eat­ing cin­na­mon rolls in some sort of dia­betic coma-inducing orgy and talk­ing, and talk­ing, and talk­ing. Soon four in the morn­ing became five in the morn­ing and a side of hash­browns (smoth­ered in green chile) and five in the morn­ing became six and its crappy cof­fee and another cin­na­mon roll and wait… that damn thing is bolted to the wall. The Fron­tier used to be 24 hours y’all and now they’re not. That sucks, but damn that green chile and cin­na­mon roll is good.

5. Brian Her­rera:
The Fron­tier is an Albu­querque insti­tu­tion. Imag­ine your favorite greasy spoon and your col­lege cafe­te­ria hook­ing up for a creepy three­some with Mel’s Diner in one of those road­side motels that boast “free cable” and has starv­ing artist paint­ings bolted to the walls. Well, the Fron­tier seems like the deeply ille­git­i­mate but strangely bril­liant love child of just such a com­mu­nion. Located on Albuquerque’s Cen­tral Avenue, imme­di­ately oppo­site the Uni­ver­sity of New Mex­ico, The Fron­tier is that rare Albu­querque restau­rant that pretty much every­body in Albu­querque passes through. Stand­ing in line, you’re likely to see col­lege stu­dents stand­ing with church folk in front of fire­fight­ers chat­ting with a local news anchor, each wait­ing for the flash­ing green light to call them to the counter so they can order their Fron­tier favorite. Because, believe me, every­body has a Fron­tier favorite. Some are addicted to the Frontier’s leg­endary sticky sweet cin­na­mon rolls, while oth­ers swear by the Huevos. That guy from that tv show raved about the Bonanza burger. Myself, I stay true to the West­ern Style hash­browns. It may take you a while but give it a shot. Try a cou­ple things. Pretty soon you’ll hit upon your Fron­tier favorite. Once you do, mark my words, it’s that Fron­tier favorite that will yank you back to stand in line for more. True, the Fron­tier ain’t the cheap­est eats in town. Nor is it the best. And if you need to use the restroom, you just might want to wait until you get home. But there’s no deny­ing that the Fron­tier is the Fron­tier is the Fron­tier and Albu­querque wouldn’t be Albu­querque with­out it.

6. Mar­cel:
Oh, beloved Fron­tier, one-time home to more bar fights than the Atomic Can­tina on Gay Punk Hair­dresser Night, I’ve missed you.

Remem­ber that time I showed up at 2am, con­vinced I’d lose my client by dawn if I didn’t throw down on work and a Fron­tier bur­rito? You greeted me unim­pressed, as always, but forth­com­ing with crock-pot chile and ter­ri­ble cof­fee. Or that time you appeared on Cen­tral in a drunken vision (that for once wasn’t a really a block-long gas sta­tion), and demanded I wait an end­less four min­utes in line. Then my fork found that bean & cheese bur­rito, and my stom­ach knew a peace not under­stood west of Gallup, north of Chi­mayó. And in the insem­i­nat­ing vel­vet gaze of the King, I remem­bered why I could never talk shit about you.

Every time the green light blinks for me – or a friend who’s been in New Mex­ico all of 40 min­utes – some­one who doesn’t have to be as nice as she is places my cheap­skate order with a smile and a nod. Every enchilada-stacked tray comes with high odds I’ll run into three peo­ple I know, and the unex­pected con­ver­sa­tion will fill the crevices the tor­tillas and chile can’t.[/zilla_tab]

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