Much ink has been spilled about the mouthful that is the name Centro Latin Kitchen & Refreshment Palace and its evocation, to those of us once mesmerized in typical freshman fashion by “Kubla Khan,” of the pleasure-dome in which an opium-addled Coleridge fathomed himself feeding on honeydew and drinking the milk of paradise.
Well, I don’t know if it’s all that much ink, really. I only know that I started drafting this post by dropping lots of subject-verb inversions, “lo!” thises and “lo!” thats and then discovered that Sheehan’s Westword review likewise contained an allusion to Coleridge. Or maybe it was a allusion to Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Either way, damn you, Sheehan! You’re too smart for my own good.
Of course, the name also evokes that old Smucker’s slogan: with a name like that, Centro’d better refresh. On paper, it definitely does. Grilled tuna with white anchovy chimichurri & braised purple potatoes? Gimme. Black bean soup with chile-charred shrimp & fried bananas? Baby. Fried oyster, chorizo, shrimp, sweet potato & green chile burritos? Come to friggin’ freakin’ mama! (Chef Ian Clark, your name wasn’t David Nevins in a past life, was it? Back in Boston, the former Neptune Oyster chef kicked my mouth’s ass with the wild likes of grilled rainbow trout topped with creamed & fried oysters & a port-pecan reduction; a salad of shredded salt cod & crispy lamb atop parsnip puree; smoked-salmon mousse dotted with roe, kiwano melon cubes & horseradish croutons; & more, more, more…)
So far, though, I wonder if (speaking of) Centro’s menu isn’t just a tad too smart for the kitchen’s own good. On the expectation-fulfillment scale, the lunch I had there recently was próximo pero no cigarro.
Granted, the one item I suspect might disappoint others pleased me deep down inside. “Avocado salsa” is not called guacamole for a reason; it contains big chunks of a/k/a alligator pear, a little onion, tomato & cilantro, very little if any jalapeno, & nada mas. Was the waiter supposed to mash it tableside (says the menu: “mashed to order”)? He didn’t; I didn’t mind. A good, perfectly ripe avocado’s a precious thing; to me, getting a full-frontal load of its creamy, fruity-fresh purity’s a treat in itself.
But a similar approach to a very different sort of mélange was harder to justify. A family-style side of “chorizo & spicy shrimp hash” could have been called “fried potatoes” for a reason; it contained hunks of spuds & casi nada mas—the advertised pieces of sausage & shellfish, as well as of onion & pepper, were few & far between. Topped with fried eggs, it was certainly hearty & nicely spiced (though hardly spicy); but its flavors failed to meld as they would have in a more proper mixture—diced rather than chunked ingredients in better proportion, including those wonderful fried peppers whose purpose was somewhat defeated by their relegation to the role of garnish. If this was an attempt at hash’s deconstruction, it succeeded rather in its destruction—de-hashed hash is just stuff on a plate.
Hash
In all fairness, I do think the chef’s intention was reimagination, obviously far more laudable than would be mere stinginess with the top-billed but less cost-efficient ingredients. My dining companion’s curried butternut squash-and-lobster soup was evidence to that effect, flaunting as it did a fair amount of the good bug.
I’m less sure of his intentions regarding the enfrioladas.
Centrosalmon
They could as easily have called it “wedding cake” for a reason: sounded good, looked gorgeous, tasted…fine. The salmon itself was a lovely, perfectly cooked piece of fish, but unless as a chile-chomper I’ve suddenly tipped the Scoville Scale—which is hardly likely (remember, I’ve been in Boston for the past decade! A lightweight forsooth!)—it hadn’t come anywhere near the habanero that purportedly graced its blackened crust. The refried black beans that coated the corn tortillas beneath as smoothly as ganache lacked salt to an almost shocking degree. So did the tortillas. Rather than a snippet of the salmon’s soulful theme song, each bite was like white noise. Ditto the plantain chips; while soft fried plantains would have meshed with the rest (including the fried egg atop the salmon, a nice squishy touch) beautifully, in their hard whole form they contributed little. (For that matter, a sprinkling of crushed chips might have tied the whole thing together—sweet-salty confetti on the fish & frijole parade).
And yet, and yet…the menu holds such appeal & promise—and has so many champions, from Sheehan to the Boulder Weekly’s gentleman & scholar Clay Fong to the dear old friend I met for lunch there, with whom I had a totally delightful and only slightly tipsy time, enhanced by earnest service—that I still trust I’ll be back.