As La Rhumba, this busy space was an object lesson bearing out the long-held restaurant theory that dumb hippies will eat (and drink) anywhere there's a jam band playing. But as Centro Taquería & Pleasure Dome, it's much more. It's a statement about how far Colorado has come along the curve toward food-world respectability, a digression on all the uppity modern Mexican/nouvelle Latino prattle that has dominated culinary conversation for years, the arguments of authenticity versus modernity, tradition versus translation. I believe it's very close to the ideal expression of a quote/unquote Colorado cuisine — and, as such, is cause for me to me to eat some of my words. Query is not the dimwitted, trend-humping, shoemaking hack I once thought he was.
He is, in fact, a fucking genius.
Like beer, like ice cream, like truffles, the pig is proof on the hoof — evidence that the food gods love us and want us to be happy. And the masa cake (or "cheesy smoked pork belly masa cake," as the menu calls it) at Centro Eat Place & Beverage Wonderland is proof that not only is Query in league with the food gods, but he's also the beneficiary of long, intimate and frequent conversations with those little deities that oversee the day-to-day ops of the restaurant industry and bring luck to their favored disciples.
Essentially, this masa cake is an arepa — the favored street food and midnight snack of all the party people who live in those funny-shaped countries sur de la frontera. By themselves, arepas are good. Arepas dipped in crema or chile sauce, arepas smothered in cheese or filled with stuff, are even better. And a sweet-corn masa cake gummed up with cheese, speckled with jalapeño and studded with brunoise-cut smoked pork belly is indescribably excellent — the kind of dish you want to eat slow so it lasts, eat fast because it is so amazing, eat three of in a row and every day for a week.
It is the kind of dish that, all alone, can define a menu, a style, an entire parenthetical cuisine — too rough and sloppy to be fine dining, too exactingly prepped to be rustic, too everything to be anything other than singular and incomparable. And it would be enough if the masa cake were the only item on Centro's menu to rise to this level of intelligent, deliberate and utterly original design, but it's not. It's just the beginning.
Also coming from exec Ian Clark's kitchen is a made-to-order avocado salsa (an overdone gimmick, but tasty), a salad with a burnt-orange vinaigrette that tastes like what I imagine that Orange Glo infomercial guy's house would smell like if it were on fire, and a simple lobster broth that arrives in a plain earthenware bowl full of nothing but a muddy brownish liquid and a few floating vegetables. Upon closer examination, however, this dish reveals a depth of technique and thought that is staggering. The most surprising thing is not that it's delicious — although it is — and not that, after ten minutes or so, the steeping, sliced raw poblano chiles step up and turn the soup into a blazing hellbroth as spicy as liquid fire. The most surprising thing is that nowhere else on the menu does lobster appear. Which means that Query, Clark and crew are bringing in lobsters (small ones, probably, but still...) solely to construct one ugly seven-dollar soup on the appetizer menu. At first I thought maybe they were just buying up shells to roast and simmer for stock and then adding a little canned or frozen lobster meat to the bottom of each bowl, but one taste puts the lie to this theory. The little pieces of lobster meat at the bottom of each bowl are too uniformly cut, too perfectly cooked (still stiff and a little squeaky on the teeth even after being poached in hot soup) to be anything but fresh, and the lobster flavor in the stock is too powerful to have been created without the inclusion of tomalley, brains, maybe roe.
As much as the masa cake demonstrates the brilliance and pure, joyous abandon of Centro's kitchen, the lobster broth shows the talent and rigorous, completely uncompromising mentality resident there. Sea bugs are expensive little fuckers; making a strong fumet or a stock out of fish racks or lobster shells is a masters'-level dissertation on galley mechanics, an über-classical bit of prep magic that most chefs do once or twice at C-school and then never again. You know who loved fumets? Escoffier. And Escoffier was nuts for doing (or making his cooks do) the nearly impossible several times before breakfast.