By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
The place was packed, as places usually are the evening following their first review. The waiters' gait quickened to an invisible trot, that parallel-to-the-ground shuffle that's adopted when you're in a desperate hurry but don't want anyone to perceive that you are actually panicked. Because one of the absolute rules of a well-run restaurant is that waiters never run.
The question of overkill is one few restaurants are prepared to answer and all critics are quick to scoff at. Really and truly, the first positive review occasionally hurts a business as much as it helps. A young restaurant may simply be unprepared to cope with the out-the-door crowds that--amazingly--believe what they read and show up when a critic turns thumbs, or forks, I should say, up. The crowds come, the restaurant is overwhelmed, and the customers leave, angry.
A disappointed patron will seldom give a restaurant a second chance. The last time I spent my own money on a restaurant meal was a lovely, soft spring night, one of the first evenings that made it seem like a wonderful idea to eat outside. But the maitre d' refused to seat us on the restaurant's patio because, he said, it made the restaurant seem "too slow"--when everyone was sitting on the patio, the restaurant looked empty. It was an infuriatingly inept and wrongheaded answer--at the very least, this guy should have made up an elaborate story about the irreparable leak and/or damaged roof that regrettably prevented safe and comfortable seating on the patio and segued into "Would you like a glass of wine?"
Garcia, in contrast, was faced with a genuine crowd, the kind of full house that's a real-life example of the fairy-tale caution to be careful what you wish for, because you may get it.
But his response to the increasingly irritable crowd was always an impeccably cheerful and correct "yes." Whatever you want, yes. If you don't like this wine, I'll bring you another bottle. No problem. If you don't like this table, please take the one you prefer. If you don't like this dish I recommend, I'll take it away and there will be no charge.
Garcia spent years at the Mansion and at Javier's, and his experience with Dallas' success stories shows. His brow may have been a little bedewed, his smile a little frantic, and his gait a little fast, but his determination to please his customers never flagged. He gently herded waiting couples from the bar into the overcrowded dining room and then turned--faintly gasping?--to us, who had arrived, alas, late for a reservation.
He was probably hoping we'd never show up--he could have used all the available space--but we were greeted with a wild-eyed smile and shown quickly to a table where we became the ward of a flat-topped waiter whose white shirt and square spectacles made him look like the host of a Spanish game show in the '50s. (Actually, I guess everyone looked like that in the '50s.) Surprisingly, on our second visit, when things had calmed down a little, Garcia's style was just as accommodating.
La Tasca, in the old Cafe Cancun or Loma Luna space on Lomo Alto, has a dark, cave-like atmosphere, with deeply textured walls. A heavy outlay of plastic grapevines flourishes on the trellis, masking the acoustic tiles. (You know, it's hard to recoup that kind of investment--they say you never get your money back out of plastic foliage.) When it's dark outside, the interior dimness has a certain romance--although the room's open arrangement and the conviviality of the place erases any real possibility of intimate conversation. But for the next few months, or until Daylight Saving Time goes back into hibernation, the brightness outside makes the inside seem merely murky, and slightly depressing.
Still, chiaroscuro is true Spanish style, and La Tasca is Dallas' first full-scale Spanish restaurant. Cafe Madrid is an excellent tapas bar, but it does not serve the range of dishes available from La Tasca's menu. There are tapas, of course, hot and cold, but there are also multiple paellas, seafood, squid, pork, lamb, stews, sherries, ports. La Tasca is Sergio and Monica Olivares' first United States venture, though the duo owns two other La Tascas in Puebla and Mexico City. So, as with so many things Spanish, this restaurant comes to Texas via Mexico. The chefs, Miguel Miguelas from Galicia, Spain, and Manuel Martinez from Dallas, emphasize the triangulation.
There are a number of 14- and 15-dollar Spanish wines on the list, and since I'm always happy to find potable wine for a good price, that's what we drank. The Torres Sangre de Toro was fine (although perhaps it would have been better served in a tumbler, correct context being so important), perfectly drinkable with the full-flavored fare.
If the waitstaff wasn't relaxed, we were certainly prepared to provide the Mediterranean attitude, despite the hour and the crowd, so we naturally started our meal with several tapas. We ordered a plate of three assorted Spanish chorizos: a small intense slice, a large fine-grained sausage, and a large coarser-grained one, each a twist of the kaleidoscope, a different fractal pattern of cured red meat and gleaming white fat flecks. Thin, triangular slices of manchega, the national cheese of Spain, were fanned on a plate; the nutty, faintly sweet stuff, not far from Parmesan but creamier, was slicked with olive oil and herbs. Soft nuggets of sweetbread, fine-grained as silk velvet and sheerly crusted, came mixed with chunks of mushrooms, the spores coarser than the glands, in a jus of mushroom and meat. A fabulous island of soft goat cheese (Spanish, flown in from California) was served melting into the best marinara I've ever tasted, each spoonful requiring full sensory capacity of the nose and mouth to appreciate the sweet, the herbal, the tang and the salt that were all components of this sauce.