Mexique

Photo: Martha Williams

The tiny, barbacoa -stuffed sope that sat on the side of a plate full of lamb chops made my decision for me: If I was going to come back to Mexique, it would have to be for lunch. Not that the dinner I was in the middle of wasn’t going well. It was. In fact, just fifteen minutes before making my decision I had taken down an entire bowl of cochinita rillettes, perhaps the best example of the French-Mexican fusion chef Carlos Gaytan is going for. The spread, made from Mexico’s famous slow-roasted pork dish and France’s beloved duck fat, had such a long, complicated presence on my tongue that I refused to dampen the flavor with bread—I just spooned the stuff directly from the bowl into my mouth. I had shoveled forkfuls of ceviche into my mouth as well, each bite of seafood morphing slowly from sprightly to spicy the longer I chewed it. I had eaten the tilapia, which arrived in a clam-tomato broth that lent the dish an unexpected depth. And I had started in on those lamb chops, which were perfect lamb chops, but were also overshadowed by the barbacoa next to them.

“You like that?” Gaytan asked when he stopped at our table. It was rhetorical, of course—the maniacal way I was going at the sope relieved me of having to provide an answer. So he continued. “We’re serving that in tacos at brunch.”

“Rearry?” I said though a stuffed mouth.

“Oh yeah,” Gaytan said. “And at lunch, too. And fish tacos, and—”

I don’t know what he said next. My thoughts were with lunch, and how I imagined that, as good as dinner was, that meal would be better. Because while I appreciate what Gaytan is trying to do at Mexique, the concept is not entirely smooth. The food only sporadically reads as fusion; most of the time it feels and tastes not like a culmination of two cuisines but rather as an upscale version of Mexico’s. And at lunch, where a long list of tacos dominates the menu, the idea of a French-Mexican convergence seems less present—and therefore less distracting.

Besides, the tacos were, as I suspected they would be, the best food I ordered. The tilapia in the fish tacos arrived in a generous coating of Negra Modelo batter, and the beer’s flavor was just as present as the flaky fish’s was. The barbocoa (pictured, left) rubbed with coffee (“to take out the gaminess,” Gaytan, the kind of chef who stops by every table to answer questions, explained), had sweet cinnamon notes that were cut by slices of pickled jalapeño. And a rich duck confit taco was, like the rillettes, an example of how Gaytan can occasionally make this French-Mexican thing work after all.

Wait, did I say “French-Mexican”? Make that “Mexican-French.” Here, Mexico always dominates. That was a point driven home by the croque-monsieur, for which no other term fits better than “lackluster.” The brioche was too thick, the ham too thin and overall the thing was just there, proving my theory that if you take the French out of Mexique’s concept, no problem. But take the Mexican out and you’re screwed.