Chama has been a perennial runner-up since it opened almost eighteen months ago ("Dirty Love," March 30, 2006). It's not the best Mexican restaurant, not the best Nuevo Latino or New Mexican or even suburban Mexican restaurant in the area. Hell, it's not even Yontz's best restaurant (which would be Mezcal). It doesn't have the best burrito, the best taco, the best tamal or the best view, and it wasn't the best new restaurant the year it opened -- but it's held a second-place position in nearly all of those races (except view, since Belmar isn't the most inspirational landscape in the world). And in fact, Chama is one of my favorite restaurants in the city.
When I stopped by recently, I caught Yontz and his crew in the lull between the lunch and early-dinner rushes -- not a good time for any kitchen, and particularly bad for one that does virtually everything à la minute. And yet, as always, the service was flawless and relaxed, the modern dining room cozy even when almost empty (a nice trick involving dark colors, wood accents and a profusion of staff who always seem to be hurrying around on some mission of grave importance), and the menu one of those rare documents so full of great dishes that eating any one (or three or five) serves only to remind me of the ten or twelve more that I want to try next time. This time through, I went for the posole de puerco -- a classic New Mexican presentation full of hominy and carnitas and deep, earthy, comforting flavors -- and a tall glass of sangrita to comfort the blow of an impromptu afternoon flight of tequilas and mezcals from the bar. It wasn't what I'd planned (the intent was to have coffee, some of the kitchen's piloncillo-spiked Mexican French toast with bananas and bacon, and a side of the potato-and-chile hash), but Chama is a place that inspires unexpected hungers, with a board of fare that will always reward those willing to divert from the day's plan and make a lunch of posole and agave consommé.
And I'm glad I did, because by the time the soup was gone and my tongue numbed by the sharp mineral barbs of three rocky, expensive, super-artisan mezcals (whose bottles and tasting glasses crowded my table, making me look for all the world like the world's loneliest daytime drinker), I was ready for a second lunch. So I rolled right into a plate of the city's second-best pork tamal with tomatillo salsa as the vanguard of the early-dinner crowd started taking their seats at the second-best new restaurant of 2006.
