6:30 pm on a Tuesday night. We’d usually be pajama-clad and seated front of the television cupping sloppy bowls of beanies and weenies. Instead, there we were, dressed in socially acceptable attire, waiting anxiously in the dimly lit entryway of Café Atlántico. Yes, that Café Atlántico. José Andrés’ beloved Penn Quarter establishment, serving fine Nuevo Latino cuisine from its inconspicuous crevice of a location on 8th Street, neighbored by a small curbside bodega.
The cozy yet refined ambience was almost too much to take, and the host, as well as all of the first-floor diners, could most definitely tell, seeing right through our winter coats and into our starving college souls. Nonetheless, the host was gracious in welcoming us and proceeded to lead our party of four up the first flight of stairs, illuminated by mini twinkle lights wound about the railings. Arriving on the landing, our jaws dropped and our salivary glands went on overdrive as we were faced with the restaurant kitchen, open for public viewing and bustling with prep work, gas burners and sizzling entrees. Before we could properly exchange looks of utter shock, we were led up another flight of stairs to our table, conveniently adjacent to Café Atlántico’s famous minibar, the perfect location for jealous spying. We were also seated next to a table of celebrating older folk. What they were celebrating, we had no idea, but we had to wonder; after popping a bottle of pink champagne, the entire table ordered red wine, then white wine, followed by some more wine. Not that we weren’t jealous. Having told the waiter that we were all just going to “stick with water”, we were fully exposed as our underage selves. In addition to being the only water-drinkers in the restaurant, we were also in absolute awe of our surroundings, gazing over at the minibar, staring around at the exposed brick interior; we’re still pretty sure that the waiter was laughing at us by the end of our meal since the dumbfounded expressions probably never left our faces.
BUT THE FOOD.
We started with handmade guacamole, prepared in front of our eyes. The Guacamole Guy had some intense skills, stabbing at each avocado with deft, practiced hands. The stoneware bowl was wiped with lime, and with help of a giant pestle, jalapenos, onions, garlic, and avocado came together in a deliciously chunky mishmash of spicy green, the perfect complement to house-made tortilla chips.
First course. Conch fritters with jicama avocado ravioli, tuna ceviche, and celery root soup. The conch fritters were the undeniable winners among the bunch. Outside, they were deep fried to the most perfect degree of golden brown. Inside, the heavenly spheres of fried-foodness were filled with a luxuriously creamy filling that tasted like ocean. The conch itself was not left whole, but was most likely cut into pieces, left to swim about in the fritters’ velvety innards. The tuna ceviche consisted of a mound of silky ceviche covered with a shield of thinly sliced avocado, finished off with a surprising topping of little salty crunchy bits that tasted like…like…crushed up corn nuts? We should have asked. Regardless, they gave an unexpected twist to the smoothness of the avocado. Finally, the celery root soup. Served by a woman in a dark pantsuit, aka Designated Soup Pourer Lady, the soup was presented in a vase-like vessel and poured over a smudge of sturgeon caviar and a puddle of yogurt. The soup was thick and smooth, described best as a puree of clean, celery root flavor, accented by the fishiness of the caviar and the slight tang of the yogurt.
Now, the entrees. Grilled flat iron steak, salmon “Café Velacruz” style, and duck confit. The steak, we were convinced, was not really steak, but steak-flavored butter. Juicy, steak-flavored butter. The meat was cooked to an even medium pink and barely required chewing, instead melting in our gaping mouths. The steak sat on top of a pool of the world’s smoothest potatoes, accompanied by haricots verts. The salmon was cooked to moist flakiness, and not lacking for its delicately sweet, crispy skin. It was topped with a slightly ridiculous bit of foam, which looked similar to a blob of dish soap bubbles, but its essence of lime provided a refreshing note to the dish. Alongside the salmon came an olive salad; a savory mix of tomatoes, olives, capers, pearl onions, and more of those corn nutty niblets. And last but not least, the duck. The skin was fatty and crackly, with bubbles of caramelized sugar rising from the surface. The tender duck meat fell off the bone, requiring no knife whatsoever, and below the leg lay a salad of brussel sprout leaves, brussel sprout hearts and a shockingly tart white dressing.
Dessert was easy. Four warm chocolate cakes, all bittersweet and deeply chocolate-y. Each one was the perfect cylinder, oozing chocolate magma when pierced with our forks. A bittersweet chocolate pudding smudge graced the plate, dotted with little banana filets marinated in some kind of citrusy juices, and finished off with a pile of banana citrus whipped cream. Needless to say, our plates were wiped clean.
As we left the restaurant, waddling down the stairs, lest we disturb our full bellies, we could hardly believe that any of that had actually just happened. This was the place of our gastronomic dreams! And we had finally gotten to experience it for ourselves. But here’s the thing; though the food was astronomical, the Café Atlántico experience wasn’t just about the food. It was about the fact that our waiter was laughing at us but also with us. It was about making awkward eye contact with the hot minibar chefs, and it was about checking out the restaurant bathroom. Let’s not beat around the bush; 2009 was getting a bit old. So we’d like to salute you, Café Atlántico, and José Andrés—my #3 culinary crush—for giving us the best possible start to 2010.
