Papatzul—according to the owners of this new chi-chi cantina in Soho—means “food for the lords” in Mayan. It is also the name of a traditional Mexican dish—an egg-stuffed tortilla baked in a pumpkin seed sauce. To me, after my most recent two visits, Papatzul translates to “hit or miss.”
The décor is festive and arty: The narrow bar area has yellow walls, banquettes the color of fire-roasted chiles, a decorative, wooden back bar and mod, globe lights. The dining room in back is quinceañera white and, on our first dinner date, nearly empty at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night.
We began with a pitcher of tart and frothy margaritas made with the house tequila, Herradura Silver. The first batch was strong, but the second round was discernably weaker—either the bartender has a fickle pour or someone didn’t like us. Either way, the chef, Mexico City-raised Thierry Amezcua, made us feel extremely welcome. A friendly man who has worked at Il Bucco and Savoy, he came out to introduce himself and recommend specialties: The baby rack of lamb rubbed with ancho chile and stellar appetizers like the sopes con calabaza, hongos, queso de cabra y salsa fresca ($6.50), tiny fried corn cakes topped with a thin layer of black refried beans, sautéed zucchini, mushroom and a little goat cheese. It was almost impossible with our table of four to limit myself to just one. But the other starters—the ceviche, pico de gallo and guacamole—though all very fresh, were boringly bland, and the hearts of palm and romaine salad ($8) bore little trace of its cilantro-lime dressing.
The service was equally well-intentioned but ultimately off-putting. Like a lot of restaurants, the waitress cleared our plates but left us with our silverware (a practice I wish Bloomberg would outlaw). When she got to my friend’s fork, to which a small piece of lettuce still clung, she looked at it, as if weighing whether she should break the rules and give him a clean utensil. Alas, she unfortunately decided against it and set it right in front of him. It was a minor offense, but coupled with four disappointing starters and a fresh pitcher of weak margaritas, we had no reason to believe our next course would be radically different. So, we cut our losses and went somewhere else for dinner.
I coaxed my husband to return with me and another friend a few weeks later, agreeing, this time, to sit at the bar. We came early on a Sunday, and therefore had the place—and the bartender—to ourselves. We chatted him up and learned that the restaurant was still working out some kinks in service, though the food, he claimed, was excellent. Sure, I thought to myself—been here, tried it. But after he set us up with drinks, including garnet-red sangria as smooth as velvet, a basket of thin, salted tortilla chips and an extremely fresh, kick-ass pico de gallo, I was ready to reconsider.
Our trio of quesadillas, described on the menu as “Fresh Corn Masa Quesadillas, Poblano Peppers, Cheese, Wild Mushrooms and Chorizo” ($9), were not the overplayed flour kind. Instead, they were hot pockets of fried corn, each stuffed with a different ingredient, a fact I didn’t realize until I’d finished the poblano and cheese one—surprisingly light for something so deep fried—and wondered why I hadn’t tasted the mushroom or chorizo. (Each of us had wolfed ours down before realizing the possibilities.) The steamed octopus ($10), which came with a sweet chipotle-tomato sauce and slices of fresh avocado, was incredibly tender, with a delicate, smoky flavor—too delicate in fact, until I added a bit of the house habanero hot sauce for some kick.
Our entrées were all exceptionally fresh and inventive—even more so than Rosa Mexicano, the gold-standard of gourmet Mexican in the city. Although my swordfish napoleon ($17) is perhaps the most creative use of a tortilla I’ve ever seen, it still arrived lukewarm. And while Papatzul’s Chile Poblano Relleno is an experimental take on traditional, Mayan ingredients—they replace the requisite cheese with butternut squash—it was too subtly flavored for us to feel any real warmth toward it. The real winner was the piping hot Budin Al Pasilla ($15), a comforting tortilla casserole stuffed with shredded chicken and black beans and gooey melted cheese—the most traditional thing on the menu. Just when I felt confident that tradition was what Papatzul excelled in, I fell in love with a very haute Mexican dessert: a scoop of crème fraiche ice cream drizzled with oven-roasted figs in a hibiscus syrup. Food for the lords, yes, but lords who don’t mind some inconsistencies.
Papatzul
55 Grand St. (at W. Broadway)
212-274-8225
