Mention the Matador to most hardcore Ballardites, and their reaction will be a mix of groaning and eye-rolling (it also has a West Seattle location, among others, but the locals there don’t seem to mind as much). It seems like an innocent enough place, but for some reason it’s often regarded as the first significant nail in the coffin of Old Ballard nightlife. Why? I have no idea. I’ve even grumbled about the place myself and I’d never been there until last week. (Actually, scratch that: The only time I’d been there was after a day-long marathon of pumpkin beer at the Elysian. My wife hadn’t eaten, so we went to the Matador. But the chips and salsa didn’t arrive fast enough. She yarfed in the bathroom. We left.) But aside from the crowd—Belltown-esque douches always dressed for happy hour—I had often wondered why it was subject to the hipster stink-eye. It has a cool ambience evoking an antique Spanish mission in South Texas (not unlike that of Peso’s in Queen Anne, which is suing Matador for stealing its concept); it’s pretty much always packed; it has a simple enough Tex-Mex menu with some fun twists (Stuffed jalapenos wrapped in bacon! Habaneros enchiladas!) So why the hate? The night we visited, the crowd was what I’d come to expect: women who hadn’t changed out of their work heels and men who grunted at the game on TV. Although my friend was perfectly content with her glass of white sangria, my mojito tasted like little more than basil and soda water on ice. If anything, perhaps the hipsters are offended less by the crowd and atmosphere than by the weak drinks? Then again, they have El Chupacabra to fill the void.