Huh? What? What?

Lüke
125 East Houston Street

(downtown, in the Embassy Suites Hotel)

On opening the door from the street, my mood changed. I'm told it was visible in my expression. And no wonder: the cacaphonous wall of noise in this new-ish upscale downtown eatery was like a cream pie in the face of an unsuspecting extra during the filming of a 1930s short feature. It wasn't just loud, it was disorientingly loud. There was music of some sort playing, something with a thudding beat and not much else. There were two televisions playing over the bar, on different channels, and it would seem no "mute" buttons on the controls. There was the rattle and thrum of the bartenders doing their job, and of what seemed like a horde of waiters moving around the room, of plates and glasses being raised and lowered, of utensils clicking with surprising clarity. And there was the sound of patrons in a half-full room, with nothing to deaden the sound. 

From our table in the center of that room, we could heard people at every table talking. They all spoke loudly, to be heard above the general din, and so added to it. I did a little experiment: I sat back in my chair, as though relaxed (which I certainly was not) and said, in a normal tone of voice, "If I talk like this, can you hear me?" My friend leaned forward and said (I think) "I can see your lips move and I can hear sounds coming from you, but I can't make out what you're saying. What did you say?"

The rest of our meal was spent leaning in, trying and failing to communicate, until we gave up, and just ate.

The waiter came with bread wrapped in a restaurant towel — Lüke's uses these standard rags for napkins and bread wrappings and, I suppose, for busing tables — and poured water for us both. He had a trainee attending him, and I concluded, from watching the two of them move around the room for nearly an hour, that it made him uncomfortable; though the other waiters seemed generally tense as well. Poor things, they have to put up with this unpleasant noise through an entire shift, while the rest of us are free to leave. (And don't think I didn't consider doing that.) 

The bread was excellent, a warm sourdough, and I took heart from that as a favourable omen.

The space itself is attractive enough: in the rear, a stairway leads up to additional dining space, perhaps devoid of the clamor one must endure at ground level. A large, elegant bar stretches across old-fashioned black and white tile, like in a 1920s drug store or my 1930s bathrooms at home; hardwood floors in the dining room, laid out in a herringbone pattern; light-coloured walls with minimalist decoration; attractive accoutrements, like brass- or copper-accented light fixtures; small, heavily lacquered hardwood table-tops on wrought iron bases redolent of New Orleans; floor-to-ceiling partitions intermittently separating the bar and dining room (ironically, channeling the sound rather than blocking it); and glass walls looking out to the patio dining area, which overlooks the River Walk and IBC's attractive plaza area. I suspect that, had the weather been conducive to dining out there, I would have felt much better about the whole experience. But not, I think, all that much better.

I ordered a drink, hoping to put me in a more receptive mood, or at least dull the throbbing that was already infecting my spirit. Bourbon and coke, tall. I suspect, though, that the waiter had not heard me clearly, though I did say it twice, with emphasis on the "tall" part; because I had to send the drink back with specific instructions to "have them put this in a bigger glass and add some more Coke to it." The drink did little to improve my outlook on the world, and when I later saw the charge for a well drink, that didn't help either. (So they use Jim Beam for their house bourbon? Big deal. It's a waste of good sippin' whiskey to mix it with Coke anyway; they should invest in a bottle of the no-name stuff for customers like me, who drink it with flavourings and just want it cheap.)

I ordered the dish that had brought me here after a viewing of Lüke's on-line menu: the pressed cochon de lait po-boy. I'm usually reliably a sucker for all things New Orleanian. It was served with a ramekin of cherry mustard, and French fries in a paper-lined cup. My friend ordered the Lüke Burger, which featured Swiss cheese, bacon, and carmelized onions; it, too, came with fries. We traded halves of our sandwiches.

The French fries appear to be hand-cut, medium-thin, and fried in small batches. I believe that last part to be so because, where my friend's fries were hot and crispy (though some were badly over-cooked), mine were cold and limp. I mentioned this to the waiter, who was not moved to whisk them away with an apology and replace them with a smile; but only to suggest that maybe my batch of fries had "sat around for a while." Gee, ya think?

Last city inspection: September 2011
18 demerits

The sandwiches were good, but imperfectly so. The po-boy's filling was excellent, the meat smooth and tender enough to justify the suckling pig's sacrifice, with the cheese still warm enough to be creamy. The sandwich was dressed, which in the context of po-boys means it had lettuce and tomato on it. The lettuce was fine, fresh and crispy; the tomato, though, was mushy and tasteless, and I didn't mind when it fell out of the sandwich onto the serving board, where it remained with (eventually) its companion piece from the burger. The bread, though, was dry. Not dry and crusty like a nice baguette, but dry and chewy like old bread. The cherry mustard sauce would have added some much-needed moisture, but I found it too sweet for my liking. I just left the hard, dry edges of the sandwich with the tomato shards.

The burger was better, though at $16 I thought it very badly overpriced, I don't care whose name is on the bacon. There was plenty of beef, a patty four inches across and more than an inch thick, and it was thoroughly cooked to medium, yet still juicy enough to soak through the bottom of the bun. It was thus to confirm yet again the well-known sink-sandwich theorem.* The cheese was the same Emmenthaler Swiss that adorned the po-boy, and was as creamy as in that other incarnation; the name-brand bacon was tasty, too, cut thick enough to satisfy yet thin enough to cook properly. It was crispy without being brittle. 

For condiments, both sandwiches were offered with a side plate containing miniature bottles of Dijon mustard, mayonnaise and ketchup. This silly little affectation managed to be pretentious and mundane at the same time. And I suspect that, more often than not, guests take these ludicrous little containers home as souvenirs of their visit to San Antonio. If I hadn't had a concert to sit through after dinner, I probably would have done that myself. (I may have to try the entrepreneur-chef's place in New Orleans, just to see if that other unique city is being unintentionally trivialized in the same way.)

Back when Lüke opened, a PR firm arranged a preview party for local food bloggers. I see that several of them attended, and were pleased with what they found. I didn't go, though I wanted to at the time, for the same reason I reluctantly skipped the reception offered here following the first concert of the Beethoven Festival a couple of weeks ago: because I knew that a free meal would sway me in a way that I would regret (being entirely too full of myself, and needing the fanciful sense of moral superiority that comes from having too-rigid principles too much of the time). Now I feel unexpectedly vindicated, in a pop-psychology way, in that decision. 

I don't know if I'll ever be able to get myself back to Lüke. There are a few other things on the menu that I wouldn't mind trying, and the dessert menu has many of my favourites on it. (I almost jumped at the King cake, in this Carnival season, but luckily remembered that King cake is only fun when you have a circle of friends who understand the tradition, and play along with it. Otherwise, it's dry coffee cake with colourful sugar icing on top.) Maybe, when the weather warms up, I'll come back, if only for dessert. Because I know this much: if ever I do go back, it will only be when I can sit outside on the River Walk balcony.

* The quality of a sandwich is directly proportional to its messiness, and the best sandwiches must be eaten over a sink. 

Exquisite

Olmos Park Bistro
4331 McCullough Avenue

(near the Circle, in Olmos Park)

The very thought of spending sixty bucks for lunch for two people would generally be enough to make me cough and choke and say mean things about the chef and lay a curse upon his descendants unto the seventh generation. So how good does the food at Olmos Park Bistro have to be to make me think that today's $63 lunch was money well spent? Yes, that good: and for the occasional splurge, for that all-too-rare wallow in immoderate luxury, this was a good value.

First, though, a disclaimer: my friend Rick and I only went to lunch here in the first place because a good friend of ours has taken a job there. The bias that relationship implies precludes me from assigning a rating to the service; at the same time, I think it'd be unfair to him to not mention the great job he and his colleague do in making customers feel welcome, and in ensuring that they have a dining experience commensurate with the milieu. With us, he replaced the "charmingly French tableside manner" one reliable reviewer noted with a down-home howzyomomminem New Orleans flair that, I suspect, even the stuffiest denizens of Olmos Park and Alamo Heights will find more appealing; although I know he is sufficiently experienced in his trade to adopt the sober, stuffy attitude of Big City Waiter when the situation calls for it. In other words, if you go, ask to sit in Peter's section, and you won't be sorry. But you didn't hear that from me.

I was reluctant to try this place, in part because of the prices, and in part because it is still fairly new. I generally like to wait to see if a place is going to survive, and to let it work out any bugs in the complicated process of feeding large numbers of demanding patrons. Some of the reviews I've read of it were a factor too; though the unseemly haste many of those reviewers showed in getting their thoughts out before the paint was dry on the restaurant's walls inclined me to think that any dissatisfaction they experienced was as likely due to the newness of the venture as to any real problems in the house. While some of the people involved in the bistro have tried their hand as restaurateurs before, I suspect this is the head chef's first attempt at giving breath to his own vision of what a fine restaurant should be. Being skeptical of most such ventures is my nature, but after today's visit I'm hoping he finds great success. Another consideration was that I thought the dinner menu, which I viewed on line a week or two ago, was too dependent on seafood. I don't have the same view of the lunch menu.

If the City of Olmos Park does health
inspections, they keep the results secret.
They should be ashamed.

We were seated in the Solar, a room on the south side of the building that serves as a bar. There are café tables on the sidewalk and the glass walls slide open to allow patrons to enjoy fine weather, but today it was too chilly, despite the bright sun, for that. The main dining rooms, which I only glanced at, seem largely unchanged from when Valentino's briefly occupied this building, and they provide a much less casual space for jewelry to rattle in. The Solar is a comfortable space, simply but nicely decorated, and if there hadn't been a television over the entrance to distract me with CNN's constantly breaking news, I probably would have bumped up that rating by another chili pepper. As it is, though, many of my memories of my first lunch at OPB will have to do with the Australian Prime Minister, Newt Gingrich, and Mitt Romney. None of those persons will add any cachet to the recollection.* 

We started with escargots bourguignon and Parisian onion soup. The chef here uses what I consider a fairly traditional recipe, a sinful combination of butter and garlic and parsley, and thankfully the presentation dispenses with the passé bourgeois affectation of shells and tongs. The dish comes to you in a plat à escargots, which will cause you frustration and regret when you find that the hard French bread available is too inflexible to sop up all the delicious residue hiding in the plate's indentations. But if you give in to temptation and lick the plate, you probably aren't ready to dine in public yet. 

It may only be because this was my most recent indulgence of the sort that I think these were the best escargots bourguignons that I've ever had, but I cannot recall an occasion when I've had better. And I've chowed down on more snails in more places, including some distinguished Parisian restaurants and my own dining room, than most people, and over a lot of years.** At ten bucks, I consider this appetizer a good deal: I have a fair idea of what goes into making snails not only edible but delectable, and while I doubt that the kitchen at Olmos Park Bistro does all the preparation themselves (it takes days, after all, and involves special wooden boxes and garden hoses and other things you don't normally find in a sensible kitchen), the cooking alone can take hours and require careful attention. 

At seven bucks a crock, the onion soup is almost underpriced, even by my miserly standards. My friend Rick is strangely devoted to this "simple" culinary treat, so I get to try it any time it's on the menu. Having now tried the soup at Olmos Park Bistro, I will give it the highest possible compliment by saying that I would order it myself. Yes, I know, I sound like a snob (quelle surprise), but this is, I'm pretty sure, the first time I've found French onion soup anywhere in San Antonio that is as good as I think it's supposed to be: as good as in any kitchen in la belle France. Like the escargots, it's easy to slap the ingredients together according to some formula and toss a hunk of bread on top; most restaurants in town do it that way. It's much more difficult — tediously so — to do it with the care and attention that it properly demands. Somebody in the kitchen is assigned that onerous task, and is performing it well. I hope they get let off their chain once in a while, as a reward.

I chose eggs Benedict as an entrée, I suppose just because it was so unexpected to see it on a lunch menu. (It was actually my second choice, but the ground lamb sandwich with Morrocan spice was unavailable.) It was served with new potatoes and green beans on the side, and the presentation was impeccable. The eggs, ordered poached medium, were done just so. The Hollandaise sauce was applied deftly, neither too much nor too little, and best of all it had a very subtle kick to it, accomplished by the addition of some piquant ingredient; possibly a dash of Tabasco, but I'm just guessing. In any case, it was remarkable for its subtlety. It steals upon you slowly, remains firmly in the middle distance, and lingers like a ghost behind the altar of a cathedral.

The beans had been lightly steamed, and retained all the satisfying crunchiness they could offer. The roasted potatoes had a perfectly toothy texture, smooth without being soft, and the seasoning mix on them had a slight piquancy to it, similar to that of the Hollandaise sauce; but, to my taste, the seasoning mix was too heavy on the salt, though I admit a bias against salt that, it would seem, somewhat exceeds the norm.

My friend Rick chose the organic chicken breast salad, and naturally he couldn't help but compare it with the spinach salad he'd had at a restaurant in the Quarry Market the other day. But there was no comparison. This salad was fresh, trimmed spinach, lightly coated in a surprising vinaigrette dressing with Dijon mustard sauce and maple syrup; dollops of tangy goat cheese and deliciously carmelized onions were mixed in with the greens, and a large chicken breast, pounded medium-thin and coated with a light mixture of bread crumbs mixed with hazlenuts, overlay all. I got only a taste of it, though I kept hinting for more, but Rick was too intent on his food to respond. 

I understand that.

* Though I have nothing against the Australian Prime Minister, don't get this Republican started on Mr Gingrich or Mr Romney.

** And yet I'm still only 49!

Just Polite Applause, I Think

Houston Street Bistro
204 East Houston Street

(downtown, by the Majestic Theater)

Seated in a front corner of the Houston Street Bistro on a show night at the Majestic, with unobstructed views of the entire room and of the sidewalk outside, I had a chance to reflect on the excitement of downtown when the San Antonio Symphony is performing. In past years, I've often chosen this particular downtown restaurant for dinner before a concert or stage play; first, because it is one of a handful of restaurants within spittin' distance of the theater (a larger handful now than before, but still only a handful); second, because it's always been pretty good. Never great, mind you, just good. It aspires to greatness, with a varied menu chock full of interesting dishes; a menu that bows slightly toward the current faux-healthy fascination with exotic-sounding salads and seafood dishes, and describes them in perfect postmodern chef-speak; but which keeps sight of the fundamental druthers of South Texas diners, with a reasonable selection of steaks and chops, too.

To my way of thinking, the bistro's proximity to the city's Majestic Crown Jewel has been as much a curse as a blessing. When I would go there for lunch years ago, I always found the food carefully prepared and the service relaxed and efficient. But in the evening, when a normal restaurant's three-hour dinner rush is compressed into a theater-going hour and a half, little things are done too hurriedly, and service suffers. 

Sometimes it matters, as last night.

The glum and dour maître-d' (I saw him smile at one departing customer, and heard him bark brusquely at a sympathetic foursome who had arrived without a reservation) seemed on the verge of apoplexy when I had to wave him over and ask for a second menu for our table for two. From where we sat, we could watch him cast his baleful glare around the room like the Eye of Sauron, and pity the wait staff; but four of the five waiters on duty seemed to move fluidly around the room, tending their tables with grace and efficiency, and covering for each other where needed. Only one waiter — ours, as luck would have it — seemed to merit the menacing glower of the maître-d'.

He tried hard, our waiter; I'll have to give him that. But I suspect the Houston Street Bistro is not his milieu. Having at last secured a second menu and consulted it, we gave him our order, and he wrote it down, or seemed to. But a minute later he was back, asking my dining companion what wine he had ordered. Three minutes after that, he was back again, asking me what wine I had ordered. (We had both ordered the same wine.) (And later, when our entrées were served, he seemed unsure of what he had for us, or who got what.)

Within a few minutes, a different waiter brought our order of panko-crusted calamari. The presentation was respectable: a good number of morsels filling a plate, along with a steel ramekin full of thick cocktail sauce. The breading was even, mild and light, pale and unseasoned, and nearly flavourless. The squid, though, was unnecessarily tough and chewy, indicating that the frying oil hadn't been allowed to heat up as much as it should have. And the cocktail sauce was strangely bland, and thick enough to pull the breading from the squid.

We had just polished off this dish when our waiter brought another, unordered dish of calamari. As he returned it to the kitchen (destined, I hope, for the bellies of the staff, rather than the wastebasket), the maître-d' tailed him with unmistakable purpose. 

"About that calamari...."

In time, our waiter returned bearing entrées. We took the opportunity to ask, for a second time, about another basket of bread. He assured us, as he had before, that it was in the oven; an explanation we accepted until we realized that, while our chincy three-slice basket of mild sourdough was in the oven, other baskets of bread had been streaming forth from the kitchen like promises from a congressional candidate. 

The dishes we had chosen for our main courses were reasonably good. Competent is the word that describes them. The chicken gorgonzola was a large-ish skinless chicken breast on a bed of overcooked cappelini in a mushroom cream sauce. There was nothing light about the sauce; it had been applied with a slightly too heavy hand, giving the pasta the appearance of great age, when in fact (as I know from my own kitchen) it was just the effect caused by a few minutes under a hot chicken breast. It made no difference in the taste, or indeed in the quality of the dish, but it made a less pleasant presentation than might have been had. Abundant sun-dried tomatoes completed the dish, seasoned distinctly yet not overwhelmingly with tarragon, an herb that grows readily in this part of the country. 

Last city inspection: August 2011
11 demerits

The "West Side Story" — all the dishes are given these cute little theatrical names, which seemed to confuse our waiter when we used them in ordering — is a large tossed salad, offered with tuna steak or, as we ordered it, salmon. The salad greens were reasonably fresh: there was no suggestion that they'd just been picked from the back garden, but clearly they had not been long on hand. The variety of ingredients showed some inspiration had gone into the construction of the dish, and in addition to the fresh arugula and red and green lettuce, there were pitted kalamata olives, blanched green beans, boiled potatoes, hard-boiled egg and roma tomatoes. The tomatoes had only a faint flavour and a too-dense texture; the other ingredients were more pleasing. The dressing, served on the side, was a thick cream-based affair, and there was just enough of it to serve. Since I tend to be somewhat frugal in my use of salad dressing (except in comparison with my wife, who prefers no dressing at all), others may well find they want more. The salmon topping the salad was nicely grilled, with the woody flavour clearly noticeable in the meat, while at the same time the innate salmon flavour of the meat was somewhere between subdued and absent. 

The prices at this restaurant were in line with what one would expect to pay in a somewhat upscale establishment. Perhaps coincidentally, the bill here was almost exactly the same as what we ran up the previous Saturday evening at a similar-class restaurant a block away. Except, on that occasion, we left a larger tip.

All the Old Familiar Places

Ciao Lavanderia
226 East Olmos Drive

(in Olmos Park, just off the circle)

Being lately resolved (again) to lose some weight, my wife and I decided that the traffic circle in Olmos Park, a mile and a quarter distant, was not, in fact, too far to walk. And it being a really fine evening, with temperatures in the high 60s and a clear sky, it turned out to be a really enjoyable half hour's walk. (The return trip, being slightly downhill, was even nicer.) 

And it being such a great evening, the sort we expect here in Paradise South only during fleeting moments in April and October, we took a table outside of Ciao Lavanderia, a place we have been coming to, not frequently, but somewhat regularly, since it opened I don't know how many years ago. Being outside was particularly nice because, in addition to the perfect weather, we could enjoy the relative quiet — there's so little traffic on Olmos Drive that it's much quieter out on the sidewalk than inside the restaurant. Unfortunately, before long the restaurant staff propped open the front door, giving us just enough of the noise from inside to cause us to think about moving, but not so much that we were actually roused to do so.

And even better, that section of tables was being attended to by one Callie, an articulate young woman who may be, when it comes to restaurant food in this town, among the most intellectually straightforward people working in the business. It was still fairly early in the evening when we arrived, so she could discuss with us, unhurried, not just the menu at Ciao (which, in all modesty, we probably know as well as most of their more frequent guests), but favourite dishes at several other places in town. She was also very helpful in selecting a wine, and in selecting entrées, and even when the place started to fill up as the evening went along, she ensured that every aspect of our evening was as enjoyable as it could be. I was impressed enough that I almost — almost — left more than a 20% tip, which heretofore I've only done by math error, or when dealing with foreign currencies, or after way too many drinks. 

The new menu at Ciao is not extensive, but it is impressively more varied than some other nearby restaurants.* That was one of the reasons we chose it this evening; the other two places that we considered near the Circle had menus that I can almost describe as monotonous: one beef dish, one chicken dish, and ten kinds of seafood. Ciao offers pasta and pizza and a few traditional Italian dishes done with flair and verve, and quite a few unusual dishes that start with flair and verve and go from there.

I suppose it's a good thing that my favourite dish at Ciao, pappardelle with sausage and spinach, is no longer offered; it forced me to try something new. Being, as I said, newly resolved to shed some pounds, I liked the sound of the goat cheese and polenta salad. But our waitress was adamant that I would find that an insufficient meal (God bless her), so I gave her my second choice, steak fiorentina, one of the evening's specials. My wife, ever the sensible one, chose another special dish, the pasta primavera.

If Olmos Park does restaurant
inspections, they don't
publicize the results.

The pasta was excellent. The pasta was orrechie, the oil-based sauce was light, the vegetables were done tender-crisp, and the seasonings were deft. The quantity was sufficient for her to eat her fill and still have enough left for tomorrow's lunch.

This was also true of my meal, which was good but less perfect than hers. My steak was barely medium-rare, about eight or nine ounces thick-cut, but the quality of the meat should, I think, have been better, as it carried a $27 price tag. It was seasoned well for the most part, but a couple of bites were overloaded with black pepper. Underneath the steak was a bed of cannellini in a nicely seasoned sauce; and some familiar salad greens, possibly arugula, topped with a few shreds of hard cheese. The taste, except for those concentrations of pepper, was exquisite, but in the struggle between beef and blade, the blade was near overmastered.

* Specifically, Olmos Park Bistro and McCullough Avenue Grill, both of which we had considered as targets for this evening's foray.

Some differences noted.

Big Bob's Burgers
447 West Hildebrand

(by the railroad tracks near San Pedro)

Last Spring, I went to the Big Bob's Burgers on Harry Wurzbach and found it interestingly unimpressive. Soon after, the restaurant moved to the edge of my own neighbourhood, and the owner sent me a comment through this blog (which, it appears, I didn't publish, and deleted; I don't remember why) asking me to try the new location. Today, my friend Rick and I did just that, making it a point to order the same meal we had gotten at the old location (except that I passed on the fried Twinkie.)

The first difference I noted was in the pricing. The cheeseburger combo was still $6.50, but now it consists of the burger and a drink, whereas last time it included fries. Our total bill this time was about the same without the fried Twinkie as it was last May. (The Twinkie is now four cents more, but, like, who cares?) 

The second difference was the service. This time it was fine. Businesslike. Efficient. Last time it was particularly good, and we felt welcomed in a way that we didn't feel today. Today, we were just customers.

The new location seems larger than the old one, and naturally has not had time yet to acquire the slightly grungy patina of age (also known, in some circles, as "character"), but the staff seems to be making a good start. I noticed unswept floors by the cash register, by the drinks stand, and by our table, and the chairs had not been wiped when the tables were bussed. If this had been the tail end of the lunch rush I would overlook that, expecting that it would be dealt with when the staff was less harried; but this was before the rush had begun. There was no excuse for the lax housekeeping.

The food itself was improved from before. Not so much the burgers, which were both large and very well dressed, with soft and tasty buns; but both burgers still lack that very desirable grilled flavour that is the first requisite to separate the ordinary from the extraordinary. The onion rings, which were good last time, were excellent today: large, crispy, fried in clean, hot oil to the right degree of doneness. The serving size might have been smaller than last time, but given that, before, we had to leave some of them on the table, that wasn't a problem. The fries showed the biggest improvement, mainly because they, too, were fried in clean oil. They are hand cut, with the peelings on, and so there are substantial differences in texture depending on how close to the outside of the 'tater a particular fry was, but they were generally more satisfying than before. They still had a dusting of seasoned salt on them, but not enough, on this occasion, to displease. I note, though, that many of the fries were fragments, indicating that they were from the dregs of a fryer basket that had seen some rough treatment.

Big Bob's Burgers is okay; just okay. But in this neighbourhood, if people want a really good burger, they will think first of Chris Madrid's (Lord knows why), and second of Daddy Macky's, both of which are a few blocks away, on Blanco. I don't doubt that Big Bob's can survive here, but if its owner wants to prosper, I think he really needs to up his game.

Creative Mexican Food

Acenar
146 East Houston Street

(at the River Walk, in the Valencia Hotel)

Even with the propane heaters going full blast, it was just a little too cold to think about sitting outside for dinner tonight. It's a shame, really, because Acenar has one of the nicest outdoor dining areas in town, one level above the River; and the traffic on Houston Street, right beside the balcony, is generally light enough not to interfere with patrons' enjoyment of the atmosphere of the place. But inside, it's pretty nice, too. Someone has devoted a great deal of thought and attention to the décor and ambience in this restaurant. The interior is done in medium orange, mulberry and beige, with the design of the walls echoed in the light fixtures, while the furniture is done mostly in black, with fake zebra-wood tops. The overall effect is one of sophistication and understated elegance, as though they were saying they could make it fancier but don't want to show off. As a place to eat, it is welcoming, comfortable and attractive.

We showed up on a Saturday night without a reservation (what is this town coming to?), and were relegated to the worst table in the house. It was worse than the worst table in the house should have been, bad enough that the manager should seriously consider making do with one less table. (Or he or she could just invest in a sound-deadening screen, to put between the crap-table and the kitchen alley.)

Direct access to the restaurant from the street is through Acenar's bar area, which, when we arrived, was thronged with prosperous-looking thirty-somethings playing with their smart-phones; until one couple started dancing, at which point all the other prosperous-looking thirty-somethings stopped fondling their screens and watched surreptitiously, perhaps even enviously. I don't know the outcome of this event, whether the dancers went back to their stools or the others joined in, for at that point the tag-team duo of hostesses got their ducks in a row and we were led away to our purgatory.

We each ordered a house margarita. While waiting on that, we were served chips and salsa; the chips in a paper cone placed in a wire holder rescued from the now-defunct Water Street Oyster Bar, which used to use these things in lieu of bread-baskets. The salsa is a house concoction of roasted tomatoes, roasted peppers, and roasted something else, which was neither piquant nor smoky. It wasn't bad, but considering how much roasting had to take place for this production, it seemed a questionable investment of time and energy. The chips were equally unimpressive, with neither an interesting flavour nor an appealing texture. They were sturdy enough for the salsa, but in a place with such elevated pretensions as Acenar has, that didn't seem to be enough.

The margaritas, when they came (in tumblers), proved very strong, with a good citric taste and a smooth tequila de oro. By that time, we had arrived at our choices: crepas de pato for me, pescado veracruzana for my table-mate.

Last city inspection: December 2011
23 demerits

Crepas de pato proved to be a good choice. The crepes were corn with a little pepper in the masa (serrano, according to the menu), and the filling was juicy, tender, delectable duck meat roasted to perfection. The topping, a tamarind sauce with onions, complemented the flavour well, and there appeared to be a gloss of melted Monterey Jack cheese as well. Over the top was a sprinkle of jicama, cut shoestring fashion. Unfortunately, its texture was rather too much like actual shoelaces for it to add anything to the meal, beyond its appearance.

The pescado veracruzana was excellent. The fish was fresh and flaky, and it was topped with a deliciously piquant sauce of tomatoes, capers and olives. It was served on a bed of fluffy rice, with more than a hint of cilantro, and wilted watercress.

After this enjoyable meal (and finding ourselves with some time before the concert that had brought us downtown), we each chose a dessert. My first choice from the expensively-printed dessert menu proved to be no longer available; apparently the manager was opposed to tossing away such a hefty investment merely because it was no longer correct. My second choice, crepas de cajeta, failed to impress. The crepes in this case, small and slightly sweet, had the texture of whole-wheat tortillas that have been too long in a microwave. The filling, Mexican vanilla ice cream, was flavourful, but had the texture of mellorine. My friend's guava sorbet in "strawberry-watermelon soup" had an impressively deep guava flavour, but no soup. "A" for taste, but "C" for effort.

I did not come to Acenar expecting to dine like this for cheap, but when I add up the charges for what we ordered, I get to about fifty-five dollars; add tax to that and I'm up to sixty. So why was my bill, when it came, over sixty-eight dollars? Because, I believe, those "house margaritas" we had ordered, which were supposed to be $5 each, were something more elaborate, and we were charged for what we got, not what we'd ordered. Contrary to my usual practice, I didn't check the bill closely on this occasion, but that wouldn't have mattered: there were no prices on the drinks menu, so I wouldn't have known. It's only now, after the fact, looking at the menu on line, that I see the price and realize I was charged for something else.

I'm prepared to accept my share of the blame for not having been more vigilant about it, and I will put the difference down to plain ol' human error on the waitress's part. But next time I go to Acenar, I'll be more careful. The margaritas were good, but personally I'd rather have the extra five bucks.