Chef Oscar Rodriguez was undoubtedly grinding and frying, while out in the restaurant the mariachi band was ambling through the rooms, strumming and harmonizing lilting tunes about mister moonlight, la senorita, la cucaracha, guantanamera. The silver buckles jingled gently on the seams of their black Lycra jeans, and the incredibly enormous velvet sombreros wobbled slightly on their heads as the threesome thrummed and warbled, as the diners sipped insipid, over-iced margaritas and wondered where the hell the tostados were. For a while, it seemed that all the pre-opening publicity, all the days of hype, had led to a wasted night; that all the culinarily curious crowd who had reserved tables to experience La Valentina's first American restaurant were going to be disappointed, were not going to have any fun or any good food; that the magic they'd been anticipating was never going to materialize.
Then our waiter, Mr. Diamond, brought the appetizers, and--as our table tasted the fish tacos, meticulously minced with the ground, roasted dark chilies and spices, dry-fried, folded in fragile gray-blue tortillas and then juiced up with the pale perfume of pineapple and sweet onion; and the yellow layered cake of custard-like corn kernels, meal and cheese; and the flecked soup flavored with cilantro, somehow maintaining its grassy freshness against a deep, hot broth--we noticed the change. All of a sudden, it seemed as though those margaritas had had tequila in them, after all. The vividness of the food flowed into the conversation, and then we heard the unmistakable half-stepped chords and the distinctive bass kick made by a hand thumping the guittaron. Heads turned to find where those big hats had stopped. The guitar player struck a chord, snaked down with his knees bent, pointed his finger at a diner, and in a new blue velvet voice, sang, "The warden gave a party in the county jail..." As if by magic, La Valentina became a very happening place.
Laura Esquivel's magic realist novel, Like Water for Chocolate, has been mentioned so often in articles about the mother of the new Addison restaurant, La Valentina de Mexico, that it seems only natural that a little magic would invade the reality of the restaurant. So many restaurants these days are all too real, utility being the prevailing fashion, that economy of style that ploddingly follows function. I believe in form following fun, if it has to follow anything. That's what Mexican restaurants are particularly good at, and La Valentina did not disappoint on that score; even though the food was not without flaws, every meal here has seemed like a celebration for no reason.
It's a beautiful and ambitious restaurant--with saltillo tile floors and soft adobe walls, antique wood beams and carved columns, tile fountains and tiers of bright blooming cyclamen. And the menu is extraordinary, aiming for what its owners call "haute Mexican cuisine," or "nouvelle Azteca," an amalgam of flavors that's been hailed as a "rediscovery" of Mexican high cuisine. The owners invited Mexico's leading families and chefs to contribute favorite regional or traditional recipes, so supposedly, the menu is a textbook of "authentic" Mexican food, a revival of long-forgotten dishes and some newly created signature dishes. The prices--about triple the average combination plate--certainly reinforce the idea that this is beyond refried beans and rice. But I can't help wondering whether these high-profile, authored recipes are actually the strength of Mexican food. In this country, for instance, the best eating is closer to the ground--the best American cooking is not haute cuisine, but low-down food. If you really want to eat the best food in the United States, if you just got here from Finland, say, and want to enjoy "real" American food, you'd turn to Jane and Michael Stern for tips about truck stops, not swallow John Mariani's advice about the latest in five-stars. You'd want to know where to get the best fried chicken, the best walk-up pizza, the best cheese steak, the best chili. Mexican food, no matter how ancient its lineage, is still earthy fare, food of the hand and land. It doesn't need precious refinements, any more than big, boosterish American food does. We were brought a basket of undistinguished but significant white rolls, bolillos, with our dinner at La Valentina. I know rolls like this are served often in expense-account restaurants in Mexico, but they're just not as good as corn tortillas, which, after all, were invented centuries ago by the ancients of Mexico. Not to quibble, but these rolls immediately beg the authenticity question, as well as the authority of the palate in the kitchen.