Our server proposed chile con queso, which he enthusiastically let us know was a "kind of Velveeta," and while we appreciated his innocent honesty, our appreciation for anything at Dos Diablos turned out to be short-lived. Despite their logo photo of Cheech and Chong-looking Mexican banditos, Dos Diablos traffics in what might best be called Ameri-Mex, a mutant cuisine where vapid flavors vie with volume as the predominating characteristics of most dishes. The three-and-a-half-pound chimichanga is "free" if you can ram it down in less than 20 minutes. A much smaller Big Chimi was advertised as "crispy golden brown" but seemed merely dipped in oil, a thick tube of soft and salty starches and proteins. Guacamole ("Best in town!") was thin and soupy; taco salad ("Eat the bowl!") was like any other you've ever seen; table salsa was just about flavor-free, and chips seemed poured from a gigantic food service bag. Our side salad was dressed in a sour and stinging vinaigrette; the chocolate tamale, a "molten" sauce served in a corn husk, was welcome in that it signaled the end of dinner. This is a hopping place, well packed after work on a weeknight. But eating at Dos Diablos filled us with remorse—this is depressing food at inflated prices.