Audio By Carbonatix
I don’t own fur and I don’t use aerosol. Why, then, would I ever eat alligator fajitas? This is the question I ask myself when the waiter at Los Mayas announces today’s luncheon special.
“Alligator?” I query tentatively. “Like, real alligator?”
“Yes, ma’am,” our waiter replies solemnly. “It’s real.”
Alligator fajitas. I feel like weeping. Yeah, I know they’re only protected now and no longer endangered. And yeah, I know they’re raised in captivity on alligator farms specifically for handbags and restaurants. Still.
(Question: Would I eat a bald eagle burro or black-footed ferret enchilada simply because it was available? Answer: No.)
Don’t worry. I didn’t express my views on wildlife conservation to our waiter. He is a nice enough young man, the kind of resort worker whose pallor tells you he has just escaped some northern clime. He is well-meaning. He tries hard. He has trouble pronouncing words like Oaxacan.
No, I keep my opinions about alligators to myself.
Which isn’t hard, considering that my faithful dining accomplice Goat and I comprise one of maybe four occupied tables in the restaurant. Oh, there are other people eating at Los Mayas today–but they’ve chosen to lunch outside on the patio. Many of them are dressed in Southwest resortwear: cactus-studded sweat shirts, brightly colored golf slacks, coyote tee shirts. It’s hot and dry to these people, though the sun is obscured by clouds and the temperature hovers near sixty.
Goat and I live here. We opt for the comfort of inside.
In preparation for my visit to Donna Nordin’s Tucson-originated restaurant, I’ve been salivating over a copy of the menu for at least a week. Boy, everything sounds good! Roast duck with pumpkin seeds, turkey breast in mole sauce, grilled lamb chops with toasted pine nuts. What I didn’t know is I’ve been perusing the dinner menu. The lunch menu we’re presented with is scaled down, lower priced and less exciting, alligator fajitas aside.
Our waiter reads us the lunch specials. When he looks up, we ask him if it’s possible to order items from the dinner menu. Hmmmm, he says, he’s not sure. He goes to check with the chef and returns to report we can order dinner appetizers, if we want.
We want.
While we munch on utilitarian chips and snappy, fresh salsa, we take a look around. The interior of Los Mayas is decidedly playful. Walls are painted tan with blue above to represent pueblo and sky. Folk-inspired paintings and masks embellish this imaginary dwelling. But while the Mexican-tile floor helps cement the theme, the ceiling undoes it: Black-painted insulation and air vents point up the staginess of the whole thing.
Our soup arrives about the time we polish off the tomato-rich salsa. Goat’s spicy sopa de elote tastes of dark green poblano peppers and is garnished with a dollop of sour cream. My sopa de lima carries the flavors of grilled chicken and lime, balanced with tomato, onion and peppers. Tortilla strips add crunch. Though the chicken-based soup is lovely to see and taste, it’s just not caliente enough for a fanatic like me.
We keep our poor waiter busy. He brings out our dinner appetizers next. The ceviche is an upscale version: bay scallops marinated in lime, tomatoes, onions, avocado and cilantro. The tiny scallops are fleshy and cool on the tongue, and the salsa marinade quite zesty. Our appetizer shrimp are dotted with green-and-red-pepper confetti and come curled on a torn lettuce bed. The shrimp are firm and fresh, but the “Southwestern spices” fall into the So What category for me. Though they’re pretty, these camarones are dull.
When was the last time you ate Mexican food without being warned about hot plates? When our waiter merely tells us to enjoy our meal, we get suspicious. Goat touches his plate. “It’s not hot,” he exclaims.
“You’re kidding,” I say. But Goat is right. The plates are not hot.
Unfortunately, we soon discover some of our food isn’t hot, either–both literally and figuratively speaking.
Goat’s combination plate looks gorgeous: thin-rolled chorizo taquito topped with sour cream and guacamole; splayed poblano pepper stuffed with chicken, corn and cheese, crowned with salsa; whole black beans; green-tinged Mexican rice. The trouble is, the poblano pepper isn’t even tepid, it’s so cool. And I’d be amazed to discover any chorizo in the taquito–it tastes like a potato chip to me.
My enchiladas de mole, beans and rice come in separate dishes stacked on a single plate. I am reminded of a cafeteria. The enchiladas are crusted over with browned cheese and give off steam when I cut into them. The mole sauce tastes mostly of spice–I strain to detect any chocolate. Worst yet, the rice and beans are stone cold.
Disheartened, Goat and I gaze out our pueblo window at the desert and contemplate dessert. The dark clouds haven’t diminished, but neither has the popularity of the patio. In fact, there’s live entertainment out there. A modern-day mariachi entertains everyone with pop standards like “Wichita Lineman” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” rendered a la Harry Connick Jr. We do not feel left out. We can hear him over the sound system. He really is pretty good.
And so is dessert! If you visit Los Mayas, save room. Avocado-lime pie (pay de aguacate) sounds like an unlikely combination, but I’m here to tell you it’s not. Each bit is a triple taste of avocado, lime and cream cheese. It seems so healthy, we convince ourselves it may even be good for us.
Canasta de nieve is divinely decadent. This miniature tortilla shell filled with banana-rum ice cream sits in a pool of warmed bittersweet chocolate sauce, surrounded by whipped cream and fried plantains. When the ice cream is gone, we break off pieces of the cinnamon tortilla and dip them into chocolate. We cannot find any fault with this concoction, save its uncountable calories.
I’d like to say I trekked back up to Los Mayas a second time, but I never made it. Maybe when my nieces fly in from Philadelphia next month, I’ll take them. Los Mayas is that kind of place.
San Carlos Bay Seafood Restaurant on McDowell occupies a position at the opposite end of the spectrum from Los Mayas. San Carlos Bay is an unpretentious, utterly charming and completely authentic Sea of Cortez-style Mexican seafood restaurant. It is the real thing.
It is also a real find.
I stumbled across San Carlos Bay (or Bahia San Carlos) while driving. I’m not sure what caught my attention first: the blue-and-yellow lettering or the happy depictions of octopus and shrimp decorating the exterior of the small cottage-like restaurant. At any rate, I decided I had to give it a try.
“Are we on McDowell or somewhere on the Gulf of California?” This is what crosses my mind when a dining accomplice and I visit San Carlos Bay for the first time. We are both enchanted by the white plaster walls, rounded archways, black-and-white tile floors and tropical photo-murals.
It is a weekday during lunch. We’re a little early, but the restaurant quickly fills. Our waitress apologizes for her lack of English. Talk about authenticity! We really feel like we’re in Mexico now. Luckily, my dining accomplice and I jump-start our Spanish-speaking brain cells and are able to ask a question or two in addition to ordering.
If you’re not a seafood aficionado, stop reading here. San Carlos Bay has one menu only, and everything on it comes from the sea.
This is not a problem for us. We start our lunch with cocktails–seafood cocktails, that is. Both come in soda fountain glassware that would look right at home in any Swensen’s. My dining accomplice’s small shrimp cocktail is packed with five firm shrimp floating in a gazpacho-like liquid of tomatoes, cucumber and onion, underscored with lemon. She is quite pleased.
As am I, with my Seven Seas cocktail. I bet old Sinbad tossed back a few of these on a regular basis. My cocktail has it all: shrimp, octopus, squid, abalone, chopped oysters, fish. Everything is fresh and tender. Ever in search of new ways to scorch my palate, I shake in a few drops of Tapatio Salsa Picante. Ay caramba, that’s good! Who needs martinis with kicks like this?
My dining accomplice spots an old sorority pal from the UofA at another table. I listen as they chat for a few minutes about Wildcats and sisters and sister things. They are the only people speaking English in the restaurant. Even the phone is answered in Spanish.
When our entrees arrive, we take delight in my tablemate’s shrimp and fish-fillet mix “culichi-style.” Served in a round metal baking dish, it is covered with a thick layer of bubbling green-tinged jack cheese. Upon tasting, we identify a poblano pepper puree as the source of color. Trouper that she is, my dining accomplice never complains about fishing under the cheese to locate her shrimp and morsels of red snapper. In fact, the only down side to “culichi-style” is hardened cheese if you’re a slower eater.
My shrimp in garlic sauce is wonderful. San Carlos Bay serves its camarones atop French fries, with rice and beans on the side. The fries soak up the butter and garlic sauce, and if they aren’t heavenly, I don’t know what is.
A man at the next table receives a steaming bowl of what appears to be fish stew. It looks intriguing enough for me to drag Goat back to San Carlos Bay the following Saturday to sample some for myself.
“Which stew is best?” I ask our weekend waitress, whose English is excellent. She recommends the Seven Seas stew. Sinbad time again. But I’m not disappointed. It’s raining outside, and a hot bowl of octopus, shrimp, crab leg, snapper, mussel, carrots and pepper nestled in a tomato broth is just what the doctor ordered. Once again, I feel like I am sitting in some seaside Sonoran cafe–not on McDowell Road.
A well-dressed couple at the next table is not fooling around (though they probably will later). They share a two-foot-long tray of just-shucked oysters, squeezing lime carefully onto each one, slurping it down. Goat and I feel like we shouldn’t be watching, so we examine our table’s condiments.
Like hot sauce? San Carlos Bay places five different brands on each table, four of which are Mexican imports.
Goat, a.k.a. Mr. Hot Sauce, says he doesn’t need any when he tastes his “hot and spicy” marinated fillet. His red snapper is further reddened thanks to a coating of red chili powder and other barbecue spices. It is muy picante and we both think it quite fine. Furthermore, Goat pronounces San Carlos Bay’s smoky-flavored beans the best he’s ever had. “They don’t mash them completely,” he says. “I like that.”
San Carlos Bay isn’t cheap, but its prices are exceptionally fair. I have every intention of sitting by the dock of this bay on a regular basis.
Los Mayas, El Pedregal, 34505 North Scottsdale Road, Scottsdale, 258-8222. Hours: 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., seven days a week. Brunch on weekends.
San Carlos Bay Seafood Restaurant, 1901 East McDowell, Phoenix, 340-0892. Hours: 10 a.m. to 9 p.m., seven days a week.
