Modesto Tacos Tequila Whiskey — Restaurant in Baton Rouge

M⭐️O⭐️D⭐️E⭐️S⭐️T⭐️ O

10 OUT OF 10 STARS (Google, you are killing me, I need plenty more stars)

It is of Spanish and Latin origin, and the meaning of Modesto is "modest, moderate, humble."

But if we are speaking Spanish,

"¡Excelente comida, excelente servicio, y un ambiente vibrante!"

I enjoyed my time here with family and was glad to indulge in my favorite foods, Mexican, authentic, so to speak. Love you, Reggie & Courtney. Say hello and give thanks to my favorite cousins who suggested this establishment!! The atmosphere was what I call "all-around!" It was family and kid-friendly. There was a spacious patio, and if you were double-dating like us, there is a romantic feel as well. Thank you for the large television. My husband seems to need one everywhere we go. It was viewable from most angles. In a nutshell, we were very comfortable.

It was my first time having the green rice, which was flavorful and moist. Noted it is now a favorite to add to any dish next time. Yes, there will be a next time. The entire plate was like no other, and I almost forgot to take a photo because when it all arrived, you could smell freshness. Take your time with the menu. Everything was so appealing, I was undecided; however, I just picked a dish.

Hooray for the chips and salsa. No, it was not canned tomato sauce, tasting as if it were made to order, which felt tableside, I swear!

The queso dip was another hit. Gotta be careful with that savory goodness. Paired with the salsa and warm chips; pinch yourself because it was heaven. You may not be able to finish your entree if you keep this up.

The service was unbelievably grand due to the high number of customers. They were on it! There is nothing to complain about there. As a matter of fact, NOTHING TO COMPLAIN OF AT ALL!

When it comes to margaritas, better ask someone else, I never have an issue in this field! Yet again, margaritas win. They were well-balanced with the tequilla and margarita mix, salt perfectly around the rim to accent the glass. As usual, the only thing that is ever missing in my margaritas anywhere is a SCORPION 🦂 🤭.

See you soon, guys!!

Respectfully, The Breaux's, Oh, and The...

This is actually quite upsetting to write, since I rave about this place to friends constantly and our family comes here regularly. However tonight was the worst restaurant experience we’ve had in BR!

We came in with my mother who flew from out of town from CA and we had told her she’d love it here and was worth the wait. We had our four kids and three adults to seat and it was hot tonight, so we told the kind hostess that we didn’t mind waiting the 25mins. She even came to reassure us that they hadn’t forgotten us at the 35min mark of wait time and both hostesses told us we were waiting for the corner table to comfortably seat us all. We even ordered drinks at the bar and drank while we stood and waited. And btw, they must’ve changed bartenders or something because my top shelf spicy marg was disgusting and nothing like what I normally order. It looked like vomit with a lime.

There was a table for six, which was open when we arrived, but they refused that table to us saying it wasn’t enough seating. That table remained empty the whole time. We watched as two families with older children came in, ordered, ate and left when the corner table that we were waiting for was emptied. Just then two couples came in and the manager gave the corner table to that party of four right away. We saw as the hostesses speak to the manager letting him know that we had been waiting over 40mins for that table. Both hostesses looks disgruntled as they set the same empty table for six that we watched the entire wait time with another chair. I stopped them immediately to say that we were told to wait for the corner table, but both hostesses explained that the manager made the change last minute. Which he in turn lied to us saying that the reservation was made five days ago. We tried to leave but the manager came out offering to comp us a free appetizer which we declined. Pretty confident he was slid some cash to bump those couples up to our seat as I overheard one of the men say, “the best he can do is that corner table”. We decided to leave and eat elsewhere. I wouldn’t recommend eating here with children, because it felt awfully like we were being...

Mas Mex, less Tex.”

It reads like a challenge. A line in the sand. In a city where Tex-Mex has long drowned itself in neon, in drive-thrus slinging queso-covered everything, in the easy lull of the familiar.

But Modesto Taco Tequila Whiskey is not here for comfort. It’s here for something sharper, something that cuts.

The sting of fresh lime against slow-braised meats.

The whisper of warm masa, still breathing from the press.

Heat—not just the kind that sears your tongue, but the kind that lingers, that reminds you of where you came from.

It sits in South Gate Village, orbiting LSU, where students, locals, and the lost all crash into each other looking for something real.

Here, tortillas aren’t an afterthought. They’re pressed every morning, salsas pulled from the earth and the flame, coaxed into something alive. Every choice—intentional. Every bite—a declaration.

Flounder ceviche arrives first. Cool, clean, an electric jolt of lime and orange slicing through the silk of avocado. Jalapeño, pico de gallo—fresh, bright, crackling with life. A reminder that food, at its best, has a pulse.

Then, three tacos. Three stories. Three lessons in labor and insistence.

The Chicken Adobado—grilled, rubbed down in adobo so deep it seeps into the bones. A hit of chile verde, sharp and unapologetic. Cilantro, onion, radish—fresh, raw, defiant.

The Carne Asada—skirt steak, charred at the edges, kissed by flame. Oaxaca cheese melts into its grain like it was always meant to be there. Pico, guacamole sauce—acid, fat, heat. The kind of balance that only looks effortless.

The Cabo Shrimp—Louisiana wild-caught, grilled, kissed by salt and fire. Mango pico, dangerously close to too sweet, then pulled back by cabbage, crema, avocado. Layers of texture. Layers of memory.

These aren’t just tacos. They’re places. Names. A past that refuses to be erased.

This is not replication. Not compromise.

Modesto doesn’t bend, doesn’t dilute. It stands firm. A reclamation. A reminder of what was always...