I will always think of El Alamo first and foremost as a grimy, packed, frat-like sausage-fest where, in exchange for the cheap and inevitable intoxication brought on by the beloved Damas gratis (Chicks drink free) policy, ladies need to endure a constant wave of denim crotches pushing up against them, greasy Facundos and Alejandros calling out “Ajjj, te quiero!”…