By Heather Hoch
By Eric Schaefer
By New Times
By Rachel Miller
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch and Lauren Saria
By Robrt L. Pela
By Heather Hoch
Let me emphasize the phrase has been. Because while the Wigwam Resort itself has only gotten better over the years, something has gone terribly wrong at the Arizona Kitchen. Despite being one of only six Valley restaurants to receive both the coveted Mobil Four-Star and AAA Four-Diamond ratings, the only award I can bestow is on myself, for having survived a painful series of meals here.
I'm confused. The restaurant's Mobil rating was granted again just last month, and this is the sixth consecutive year the AAA designation has been awarded. Those folks are tough. But apparently not tough enough, because this is not the Arizona Kitchen I fondly remember.
300 Wigwam Blvd.
Litchfield Park, AZ 85340
Region: Litchfield Park
623-935-3811. Hours: Breakfast, daily, 7 to 11 a.m.; Lunch, daily, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.; Dinner, Tuesday through Saturday, 5:30 to 9:30 p.m.
My Arizona Kitchen was a showcase of dramatic culinary techniques, emphasizing ingredients of our region -- chayote, chiles, blue corn, nopales (cactus), Anasazi beans and mesquite flour. Appetizers were adventures, like blue corn piki rolls filled with shredded capon; entrees were dreams, such as sirloin of buffalo slapped on the grill, then plated in a puddle of rich Cabernet vanilla bean chile negro sauce with silky sweet-potato pudding.
Today, those ingredients (sans the buffalo and capon) are still here. Dishes are still inventive, like tamarind honey-glazed duck breast with foie gras and corn bread pudding with ancho chile duck jus. But something is falling apart between kitchen counter and dining table, leaving food that looks wacky, tastes weird, and speaks nothing of an elegant, refined experience.
And, odd for such a high-end operation, the restaurant is now open for breakfast and lunch, welcoming the tee shirt and shorts crowd with open arms.
What in the world is going on?
I'm impressed with the Wigwam property's recent $6 million renovation. A fashionable and exclusive resort since it opened in 1929, it's still grand and glorious in that unique Arizona style. Fountains, flowers and expensive artwork galore, sparkling pools with private cabanas, wood ceilings, flickering fireplaces and galleries of black-and-white photos of the grande dame in her old days -- how can we not be charmed with such a place?
I find out with my first glance at a tostada. In all my years of exploring bizarre foods, this thing ranks right up there. Instead of the traditional flat tortilla with layered toppings, this looks like a muffin wearing a Viking hat. At the base is a tall round of crispy, burned-tasting, crumbly blue corn. Topping that is a pile of salty-sweet (orange and vanilla-scented, I'm told, though it reminds me of barbecue) shredded pork. There are thin curls of salty zucchini, blue corn frizzles stuck in the creation like horns, a hairpiece of radish sprouts, and a mild sauce of roasted garlic zucchini crema. As winds up being the case with much of the food I find here, the Kitchen's chef is hung up on wowing us with elaborate menu descriptions that become merely crazy on the plate.
It's true that I find an amuse-bouche (freebie nibble sent out by the chef) to be actually amusing, but not in a good way. There are enough ingredients on this teaspoon-served bite to be an entree: a sea scallop topped with a cube of raw ahi, floating in fennel-coconut foam. Even without the aggressive spritzing of lime (my jaw actually locks from the sourness), it's too many flavors in too little space. We follow it up with jalapeño fry bread dipped in cardamom honey, and the riot of disappointing fare begins.
For me, soup is one of the world's all-time most perfect foods. It's where chefs can do some incredible magic with unlikely ingredients -- I think it's something about the natural-bred comfort of hot liquid that brings out the best in vegetables, meats, spices, and even fruit. Not so with the Kitchen's corn chowder, which, even if it didn't arrive tepid, would be a flat affair of sludgy creamed kernels dotted with hominy. My server is proud of the tepee design that's been drizzled atop with red bell pepper sauce, and the cacti of nopales purée, yet the art doesn't add to the flavor. I never need to experience a bland chicken mole rojo, either -- served as a soup, but too thick like enchilada sauce sodden with Oaxacan cheese.
There's no doubt a lot of work goes into making most of these dishes -- I can see the charm in such complexities as espresso-cured venison medallions with apple, red lentil and venison chorizo casserole; or braised lamb shank with chipotle cream cheese, preserved baby carrot torta and sweet corn sauce. But like the seemingly innocent fish I sample, they arrive amateurishly prepared. My ahi tuna looks like a Chia Pet, sporting an Afro of radish sprouts on a bed of swirled mashed potato, zucchini swirls, baby squash, charred tomatilla salsa and achiote lobster sauce. The fish is dry, dry, dry, salvaged only by an excellent crispy pepita (pumpkinseed) crust. Halibut is a bit better, if equally overdressed, thanks to topnotch, moist fish. It's inventively mesquite-dusted (with ground mesquite pods), paired with mashed potato, vanilla fennel confit, and an interesting passion fruit mulatto chile sauce.