Ho Hum.

Galatas Cafe
2011 Austin Highway

Galata Tower, Istanbul

The most interesting thing about this place is its name. I thought it was odd that a Mexican restaurant would be named for a neighbourhood, however charming, in Istanbul. Turns out it's not. No, according to the waitress, "Galatas" is something from the Bible: "You know...John? Paul? It's like...from the Bible." 

I figure it must have to do with Galatians, the community in Asia Minor that St Paul wrote to. You know, the one that's famous for the verse, "For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: Love your neighbour as yourself." (Galatians 5:14) (Nobody ever seems to talk about verse 5:12, "As for them, I wish they'd go all the way, and cut their own nuts off." I wonder why; it seems a most un-Christian sentiment these days, and surely worthy of at least some discussion.)

 But I digress.

Once the issue of the name is resolved, I find I have no further interest in this restaurant. The service is attentive and friendly without being particularly effective; the atmosphere in the place is perfectly ordinary for such family-run taquerías, and the prices are unremarkable: good enough so you don't feel ripped off, not so good that you'd be back because of them.

The food, unfortunately, is less than satisfactory. The home-made corn tortillas were perhaps the thickest I've ever had. Maybe somebody's abuelita made them that way, but that'd be about the only thing I can think of to recommend them: they have no flavour to speak of, not even the subtle, very mild flavour that one usually associates with corn tortillas. They were just there holding the filling, not adding anything of their own. 

The flour tortillas, also made in-house, were better in texture and appearance, and according to my friend Rick they had a good flavour. I would have asked for a taste, but after my own meal I wasn't inclined to have more. And you would think that Rick would know by now that he should offer me a taste of everything, since he can't easily bring himself to describe things without great prodding and intense interrogation. I may have to look into this waterboarding technique that the CIA finds so effective.

But again, I digress.

The chilaquiles were, oh, so-so. No, that's being too kind: they were bland. The quantity was good, even generous, but the quality was lacking. The machacado was similarly bland, and had the added unpleasantry of a huge chunk of gristle. And, I'm sorry, but the meat in that machacado taco was not machacado — shredded dried beef. It was, maybe, fajita meat cut in chunks and thrown in with the eggs and what-not.

Last city inspection: December 2010
13 demerits

And as for that what-not, the veggies that give both chilaquiles and machacado con huevo their substance and appeal: the cook in this restaurant's kitchen is in waaaaaaay too much of a hurry. It only takes a minute or two of sautéing to give the onions, peppers, and tomatoes the texture and flavour they require to do their job. These veggies may have spent fifteen or twenty seconds in the pan before the eggs were introduced, and then it's too late to make it right. The objective, for a restaurant cook as much as for those of us who do it at home, is that delicate balance between crunchy and tender, the moment when the cellular structure of the onion has broken down just enough that all the flavour of the oil or butter can seep in and all the flavour of the onion itself (or the pepper, or the tomato) can get out. If you just toss it in the fat for a few seconds, all you're doing is warming it up, and if you then serve it to a customer, you're serving, essentially, raw onion and raw peppers and raw tomatoes — a salad — with scrambled eggs. That's not what your customers want, they want you to invest just that minute or two needed to produce, if not a work of culinary art, at least a journeyman product.

Rick says the picadillo was good. It wasn't greasy. It looked unremarkable to me, and again he didn't offer me any. I really need to have a word with him about that.