By Gretchen Kurtz
By Mark Antonation
By Cafe Society
By Kristin Pazulski
By Chris Utterback
By Cafe Society
By Jamie Swinnerton
By Jamie Swinnerton
What's in a name? The Latin colloquialism for "talk of the town" was a good fit for La Fabula; long before the restaurant actually opened, the neighborhood was talking about what kind of eatery would be brave -- or foolhardy -- enough to take on a location with a long, and largely sorry, history. Most recently, this quaint Victorian bungalow was occupied by Bali Island, an Indonesian spot whose owners said they were relocating but have since sunk out of sight; they took over from The International, an unbelievably peculiar establishment run by a notorious piano player and convicted check-forger; prior to that, the address saw a long line of other joints come and go. In fact, the last time the building housed a prosperous enterprise may have been two decades ago, when it was the original home of La Loma.
Since La Loma continues to do big business just a block away on 26th Avenue, talk was that the upscale Mexican restaurant that owners Ramiro "Rome" Sanchez and Ron Ford had planned for the place just might work.
The restaurant certainly looks fabulous. Sanchez and Ford planted more than a thousand pansies in front, and as a result, the patio is an explosion of colors. With umbrella-shaded tables dotting the bilevel space and trees and plants cascading from hooks around the porch and the tiny parking area on the side, this is one of the town's more comfortable and inviting al fresco dining experiences. Inside, the four small dining rooms look just as appealing. All of the cracks and dings that Bali Island had covered with Indonesian posters are now patched and painted warm Southwestern colors. The walls feature interesting, unkitschy Mexican bric-a-brac -- Aztec paintings share space with turn-of-the-century stained glass -- and the old house's nooks and crannies are filled with colorful crockery and bowls of floating flowers.
Hours: 11 a.m.- 3 p.m., 6-10 p.m. daily
You'll have plenty of time to study these surroundings while you wait -- and wait -- for your food. The restaurant clearly suffers from the town's ubiquitous service shortage (resulting in such snafus as menus that take forever to arrive and water that shows up halfway through a meal), but the bigger problems seem to start in the kitchen, which over three meals had trouble executing the ambitious -- and sometimes overblown -- menus. And then there's a little problem regarding the owners' interpretation of the codebook: They may well be breaking the law by inviting diners to bring their own alcohol into a building that hasn't been able to get a liquor license for years. (See The Bite, for more details.)
To liven up its legal liquid refreshments, La Fabula offers a roster of Mexican sodas as well as virgin Bloody Marys and margaritas. We sipped a tequila-free marg as we contemplated the amazing appearance of complimentary chips and salsa -- when was the last time you got that starter for free? We would gladly have paid for this one, because the freshly fried blue, red and yellow corn tortilla chips came with three distinctive salsas. One was a crunchy, cilantro-speckled, pico de gallo-like salsa fresca of tomatoes, onions and peppers, which started out light but got downright addictive. The salsa roja boasted a potent, well-puréed blend of roasted tomatoes and peppers, and the salsa verde, a tomatillo-based brew that contained a variety of chiles, featured a nice smoky touch that wasn't overpowering. A few bites of these well-melded sauces had us eagerly anticipating the meal to come.
Another hour passed, however, before we caught sight of our appetizers. The stuffed jalapeños ($8.95) started with the red, and hotter, stage of the popular pepper (which, by the way, is named after Jalapa, the capital of Veracruz, Mexico), filled it with goat cheese and a whole shrimp, and then wrapped the entire affair in bacon. The combination had possibilities -- the greasy, salty, smoky bacon should have played off the sweet shrimp and rich cheese, with the pepper firing up the flavors -- but because of poor preparation, the cheese was lukewarm and barely melted, the shrimp was overcooked, and the bacon was only partially cooked. The package fell apart at first bite, making it impossible to take a second and sending jalapeño juice running down our arms. The beef sirloin tips asada ($8.25) was more sensible and so somewhat more successful. A nebulous, powdery substance that might have been a chile rub but seemed more like a dry and salty Lipton soup mix dusted the meat. The grilled beef itself was tasty, if a bit chewy, and came with very fresh tortillas, sour cream, avocado, diced onions and tomatoes, all suitable for wrapping.
Far more exotic, and almost magically earthy, were the "tacos of inky" ($9.95). Huitlacoche -- pronounced "hweet-la-co-chay" -- is a Mexican delicacy that's becoming increasingly common north of the border as restaurants get hip to the weird-looking but delicious fungus that grows on corn kernels. Called "corn smut" in culinary circles, these smudgy black bubbles are smooth and spongy when dry, then turn into runny black goo as they're cooked. Their flavor is quintessential mushroom, but with a sweetness that comes from being attached to the sugary corn, and it goes well with spicy chiles and fresh vegetables -- which, oddly enough, are the very items most readily available right after the Mexican rains come, a time when you find these mushrooms in abundance. You can order canned huitlacoche from gourmet mail-order companies (I haven't found a market that carries it yet), but Sanchez and Ford managed to locate an importer that gets it fresh, and it makes for heady eating. "Inky" refers to the black liquid that squeezes out of the huitlacoche, which arrives packed into two small flour tortillas along with diced tomatoes and onions.