Imported from Austin (two locations), Iron Cactus is part of an urban project to revitalize a six-block chunk of Main Street, a move that city leaders hope will fire a shot of adrenaline into the city core's withering arm.
And it feels good, sitting on a third-level patio, surveying Pegasus Plaza and the rows of prewar buildings that mercifully and expensively are being restored to their original charm and soul. Down on the Plaza, a couple of men walk their pooches while another waddles along with his toddler. Within minutes, a pair of trials cyclists joins the fray, weaving, jerking and bobbing their bikes over boulders, stone benches and fountain periphery. They move with precision and balance, eyeballing a boulder's dimensions before mounting it, guiding the cycles down the sheer precipice on the other side. Trials bikes are strange and ruinously expensive (about $2,000) machines that have front disc brakes and no seat. Imagine the trials and tribulations if that last fact slips your mind and you try to sit down.
These are the kinds of things you don't see in the typical Dallas strip-mall trattoria or taqueria. Which is why peering out over the slow reanimation of Main Street from the Iron's patio perch, armed with a battalion of tequila shots and a basket of chips with the Iron's exquisitely rich, smoky salsa, is a good thing to do. Just don't do much else. Here's why:
The third-level patio is equipped with a huge fan plus a mister system. The fan rumbles like a sleepy turboprop. On our first visit, we were seated right next to it, which hurled a wet blanket over our conversation. So we were moved from the ground zero of the fan's air blast to point-blank range of the misters, which threw a wet blanket on everything else.
There must be a precise science to successful patio misting. The best of them wrap you in a cool fog with just enough moisture to leave a glow on the forehead and loose curls in the hair. But instead of a fine fog, this mister fired drizzle. Instead of cultivating gentle curls and healthy glows, this one delivered a finishing rinse and a runny nose. Those droplets clung to ice water glasses and quickly grew into wading pools on the table. A gully formed in the menu spine while the flatware broke into a cold sweat.
What does this do to the Iron's mix of Tex-Mex cuisine? Thankfully, the mister bullets didn't condense on the food, though they might as well have clung to the fried calamari on the "cactus platter." The rings were cold, pasty and tinged with the flavors of rancid fry oil. Those drops could have settled on the queso dip, too, as its complexion was primed for a hard sweat. Witness this: A slice of calamari tumbled from a fork and plunged into the pale yellow ooze. Only it didn't sink in. Instead, it clung to the thick skin that had formed over the surface, punching a dimple into the center while tugging a star pattern of creases across the expanse. Queso really isn't supposed to behave like this.
Now it would be unfair to judge the Iron experience on a spurt, a bad fry and a cup of leathery cheese. But the rest of the evidence did little to dissuade. Billed as a "creamy blend of cheeses, spinach, garlic, onions and artichoke hearts," the spinach dip undershot the cream threshold by a wide margin. Cheese shreds slumbered cold and stiff over the dip surface. The interior was cool and pasty, instead of warm and creamy--more like a chilled, jiggly quiche. Flautas were greasy and largely flavorless. Quesadillas, flecked with bits of tomato and bell pepper, held thick lips of white cheese that were hard and cold. Maybe the misters did this, too.
The contrast with the architecture couldn't be more pronounced. Iron Cactus is a handsome, tightly knit space with a spiraling staircase that winds upward through that shimmering turret. A massive glass mobile dangles two stories down from the ceiling, providing the drama one would hope to find on the plate. More drama unfolds on the second floor where focused light splatters over a wall holding an upscale crop of tequila bottlings, the same floor that is home to an "open air" exhibition grill showcasing an array of tapas.
Little of this sizzle translates to the menu. Yet the Iron does squeeze out at least one engaging dish. Carne asada con adovo is billed as "prime sirloin pounded thin" and brushed with adovo (garlic, pepper) sauce. The meat is beaten into a fuzzy texture, like a flat ground-beef patty. But it isn't. It's a juicy steak loaded with flavor with a sauce that adds a layer of heat and a sliver of tang. The plate, though, is inelegantly assembled. Guacamole salad--a large button of avocado tacking down a floppy lettuce leaf--was strewn sloppily with bits of tomato and onion. A dish of charro beans was good, though: smoky, firm, supple and packed with flavor.
The beef didn't hold up in the Santa Fe skewers. These spears were rows of thick prime sirloin chunks interspersed with coils of firm gulf shrimp. Ordered medium rare, the chunks were cooked into a pale, almost milky gray. And though the meat was juicy, it was riddled with off flavors betraying the Iron's emphasis on freshness. The Mexican rice was fluffy, though.
It was execution, not a lack of freshness, that did in the fish. In restaurants with Latin influences, high hopes always cling to ceviche. But the Iron's ahi tuna ceviche, "marinated in citrus juices," doesn't come off with any aplomb. The fish was warm. The citrus juices tasted of nothing but reconstituted lime. The tomato scraps were faded. Crisp red onion slivers were the only components that had the muscle to break up this monotony. Yet ceviche can never be saved by an onion.
Our hopes rested on the fish tacos, but they quickly unraveled here, too. Peel back the corn tortillas, and you'll unveil long white fish fillets tapered at the ends and speckled with seasonings. But these wraps were so drenched in lime-butter sauce that the corn tortillas drooped and the fish strips were reduced to mush. The tacos rested on a warm and limp slaw of jicama, yellow squash and zucchini.
Surely the taco salad--the concert shell of Mexican cuisine--must be where all of the Iron drama is stowed. And it has some, up to a point. Served in a large tortilla shell, the salad is spread with tiny orange beef grains that are dry and fuzzy. Though the spice is pointed and pronounced, rich meat flavors managed to come through the sprawl. But the crowd of tomato specks and avocado supplemented with sour cream, cheese and avocado ranch dressing didn't do much to rescue a jumbled dish.
Strawberry shortcake was equally frayed: a couple of slabs of dry, stiff pound cake shouldering a tumble of strawberries and topped with whipped cream that was slightly stiff, maybe from spending too much time in the cooler.
Even with heavy doses of civic boosterism, Iron Cactus won't survive long-term without more surefootedness in the kitchen plus a little more attention to mister details. The urban view, the architectural sizzle, the tequila and the salsa all make it worth a visit. But the Iron is like a trials bike: A short spin might be fun, but it's hard to settle in for the long run when any attempt to sit down for a while will make you wince.
1520 Main St., 214-749-4766. Open 10 a.m.-10 p.m. Sunday; 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Monday-Wednesday; 11 a.m.-2 a.m. Thursday-Saturday. $$
