A lone stalk of blue corn
sprouts from the sidewalk on St. Marks Place, directly
in front of La Palapa. The hapless stalk, transplanted
from San Miguel de Allende, is a cure for Barbara Sibley's
homesickness.
The same could be said for her restaurant.
Sibley was raised among artists in Mexico
City, and since moving to New York, she has been pining
for the refined dishes of her youth -- food more lyrical
than those belly-bomb burritos New Yorkers associcate with
Mexican cuisine.
To open La Palapa, "the shack," Sibley
joined with Margarite Malfy, a chef who has traveled extensively
through Mexico. The women share a passion for all things
Mexican, from pottery to poetry. They also share kitchen
duties.
Sibley is eager to talk about her Mexican
childhood, and it's this personal touch that can make a
meal here so pleasant despite some kitchen inconsistencies.
No sooner have you taken a seat (preferably
in the back patio) and a sip from your blood-orange margarita,
the waiter will suggest guacamole and chips. Say "si."
It's among the best I've had (just the right note of cilantro
and lime). Then take a virtual hike through the Yucatan
desert, by way of the menu, where you encounter: epazote,
cactus pads (nopales), poblano chilies ... tequila.
I've always dismissed quesadillas as kid-food.
This one made with wild amaranth greens and queso fresco
(farmer cheese) tasted all grown-up, as did the quesadilla
stacked with sauteed mushrooms, garlic and lots of brazen
epazote -- a pungent wild herb that tastes like fresh coriander.
Both versions left me with grease on my fingers, but also
with a newfound respect for the humble tortilla melt.
Boston lettuce tossed with grilled cactus
slivers, in a zesty lime dressing made for a lively salad
and a perfect introduction to the prickly plant. Predictably,
a salad starring dull jicama was a siesta of a starter.
Only the bold need apply for the vagra
tamal, a made with catfish, cactus pads and more epazote.
The dish comes from the heart of Mexico, where take catfish
are steamed whole in corn leaves.
Skip the shrimp ceviche, loaded like a
mule with capers and olives. Instead order the calabacitas,
Mexican squash slow-baked with chipotle cream and queso
fundido.
Don't eat to many chips because entrees,
or platos fuertes, have heft. Dishes come with hillocks
of rice and beans but leave room for more satisfying sides
of grilled spring onions or chayote (the gourd of the Aztecs)
baked in a spiced cream sauce.
La Palapa's chicken enchildadas area standout,
presented in a spicy stew of tomatillo sauce and topped
with queso fresco and hula hoops of milky-sweet white onion.
Slices of duck breast in a sesame-mole sauce sounded alluring,
but the mole was thin and underdeveloped. A brooding Oaxacan
mole, however, draped like a mantilla over (overcooked)
pork tenderloin, was far more mysterious.
Diego Rivera could have mixed the color
for the lush, cilantro-green, pumpkin-seed sauce bedding
a cod fillet. Soaking in tequila and lime does nothing
for me, but the marinade worked wonders for a juicy grilled
skirt steak.
"Tres leches" cake seems to be the dessert
del dia. At La Palapa, it's capped with pillowy meringue
icing, in a wedge so large and tall, I thought a cruise
ship was pulling in. The cake was good, but needed a longer
soak in the milk. Kahlua flan with a dash of vanilla was
flawless. Make sure to try the summer corn ice cream, either
topped with a goats' milk caramel sauce (cajeta), or solo,
to truly appreciate its golden kernel flavor. It vanished
almost as fast as the margaritas.
Sibley and Malfy like to say their palapa
has "ghosts": Both Leon Trotsky and poet W.H. Auden once
called the building home.
It's easy to see why they'd hang around.
I know I'll keep coming back to the shack. |
