Along a dead block in Brooklyn sits a small, sleek restaurant featuring Latin-fusion cuisine, affable lesbians and the promise to be a fine neighborhood haunt—if there were any neighborhood yet to speak of. Mojito Loco is too classy for adjoining thugs and too, well, classy for the throng of hipsters to the north.

Still, an interesting blend of each sprinkle this little-known gem on an intermittent basis. They come for the extra limey ceviche and paradisiacal mojitos (mango, raspberry, strawberry and blueberry, with ginger in the works), and they stay because the table is theirs for the night. The joint offers such alien laissez-faire, a policy its three owners—Nelly, CeCe and Gina (who also run a nearby laundromat and coffee shop)—claim they wouldn’t trade for lines around the block, and yet no European pretensions. One regular, a Spanglish-speaking, Corona-swigging cokehead, discusses baseball, soccer, Florida, Columbia, youth, elderliness, his dog, his nephew, the weather, sailing, drinking and fucking—all in a couple of visits. Construction sites and multimillion-dollar ramshackle properties skirt the quaint, handsome establishment, and rusty awnings yawn and groan in the wind. 

Tonight, I dine with Terra Thorne who, despite her name, is to my knowledge not an adult film star. It’s our second time seeing each other and our first time being alone. She is pretty, I’m not merely drunk, and her charm increases with each grave mojito (served in a pint glass and well worth it at $10), of which we sample all—her favorite is strawberry, mine is blueberry. She is worldly and unapologetic and offbeat. We mock each other for much of the evening, which I take to be encouraging. We split mussels that are ruder than a DMV employee ($7.50), and are sprinkled with cilantro, pepper and corn. She cups her hand beneath each forkful so as not to stain her sky blue top, which I can’t help but notice clings lovingly to her chest.

Looking around, a few tables seat girls who look like debutantes and guys who look like Weezer. “Armed and Famous” has been muted for the growing crowd in favor of more appropriate salsa music, which encircles near-drunks like a huff of ambrosia. The tables are square and sturdy, the lighting is dim, the Hefeweizen is cold and breezy. Christmas lights are wrapped haphazardly around a street lamp outside. From our angle, we can see into the kitchen, which is manned by a 17-year-old named Marco.

“Six more and I’ll dance with you,” I say, though I actually mean, “One more and I’ll kiss you.”

Over the next hour we sample several dishes. First, a spicy sort of chicken with fried yucca ($12.50), which is smothered in a creamy chili sauce. Then the cheeseburger ($8.50), which, if you need a failsafe, is superb. With Oaxaca cheese, avocados and jalapeno mayo, you can eat it and not feel completely boring about yourself. The steak ($14) is a bit flimsy in texture, but makes up for it in flavor. Every dish is swimming in spices and plenty satisfying. The Chicken Carbon ($10) melts in your mouth and drips to your stomach, the accompanying swollen fries taste wonderfully of herbs. Even the tostones, which are lightly fried in peanut oil, seasoned with salt and pepper and served with a scrumptious garlic mojo, are tasty enough to curb your appetite before the real stuff arrives. Fear not, though, everything at Mojito Loco is light—except the mojitos.

For desert we order sweet, soft plantains bathed in cajeta, a thick syrup spiked, in this case, with tequila. It’s too strong at first—who wants to eat tequila?—but by the end I’m slurping away like a pig from a trough. We get drunker, happier.

The food is good, as are the drinks, as is the service. The only thing missing is a lively scene. If you’d prefer to fill up on booze, be there at five to guzzle two to one mixed drinks, house wine and domestic beers until eight. If you’re looking for hipster digs and roaring jukeboxes, you’d do better going to Bedford.

Mojito Loco

102 Meserole St. (betw. Manhattan Ave. &

Leonard St.), B’klyn

718-963-2960