So when a friend mentions Mangos Mexican Cafe to me, I perk up at her description. It's your basic menu, she says, but it's actually really good. Yet, as soon as I hear its location -- in downtown Mesa -- I sober up. Traditionally, there's been little culinary excitement in this sleepy East Valley city; its claim to Spanish fame being the ancient El Charro, an okay but oh-so-predictable purveyor of tacos, chimis and enchiladas.
After grabbing Mangos' menu, my hopes dampen further. It reads like a chain with its cute descriptions: tamale fiesta, killer burrito, nachos machos. While I admit that there's a certain gluttonous appeal to the type of food chain Mexican places serve -- American-style Mexican, I call it, featuring dishes heavy with sauce, sour cream, guacamole and ungodly calories -- so few deliver on taste. Sometimes I crave a good, old-fashioned bomb in my belly, and there's potential to this cuisine if only it could be done without tasting like wet cardboard.
I trust my friend's judgment, though, so I hike out to Mesa anyway. And joy of joy, I discover a jewel. Mangos is no chain operation, I find, partnered only with a sister cafe, El Sol, in Chandler, sharing the same menu. The cute dish appellations are in keeping with the restaurant's bouncy interior: walls in a fantastic smudge of lime, pink, yellow and blue under a faux cloud sky centered by a giant plaster sun; a panther-size lizard leering at us from behind the small ordering counter; and smaller critters creeping into ceiling-level planters. The decor, like the blackboard menu mounted on corrugated metal, is pure shtick, but here, it seems just right.
Mangos' success comes from the fact that its staples, including the hubcap-size flour tortillas, are homemade -- the fastidiously tidy kitchen is visible from the dining room, and I can see a cook performing her ballet, tossing a doughy tortilla to wobbly thinness, then dropping it onto a grill to bubble and firm. While the little shop doesn't offer anything Valley diners haven't seen many, many times before, it does serve the good, nonthreatening gringo fare that places like Macayo or Garcia's only wish they did.
Mangos has been open about a year, and after several visits, I understand why I haven't heard about it. Its owners surely wouldn't solicit attention from the media -- they've got enough from their customers -- and the customers likely want to keep the secret to themselves. Portions are enormous, and prices are reasonable, with nothing over $9 and many choices under $5. What's not to like? Indeed, the eatery is swarming every time I go, even when I arrive at odd hours during midweek to test its popularity.
The concept is fast food, but with a twist. We line up at the counter, flanked by a display case of Mexican-style desserts (basically sugared breads) and a counter laden with glass crocks full of fresh juices (mango, cantaloupe, strawberry, watermelon). We pay, are handed a number and settle down at a sherbet-colored table.
That's where the self-service ends. A busboy brings a bowl of thick, slightly salty chips that on first bite are too dense but very quickly grow on me. Mangos' homemade salsa helps -- it's a classic blend with a fabulous, back-of-the-throat chile bite. The busboy brings us water and our beverages of choice (the mango juice is a must -- thick, sweet and syrupy). He brings us our meals, then checks back to ensure we're happy.
And I am. After my first bite of the torta jamón served at this tiny place, I know I'm going to like Mangos. It's a weird attraction to an uncomplicated food, I know. Even decorated with spicy fresh jalapeños and avocado, torta jamón is basically just warm ham plopped on a hoagie roll. But there's the lingering heat of the jalapeño juices soaking into the lightly grilled, vaguely sweet Mexican bread. There's the comforting texture of the thick-sliced ham melding with the moist avocado and cakelike roll, finishing on a luminous note of grilled tomato and onion. And there's the way it arrives wrapped in wax paper bunting, just like at my favorite storefront stands in Mexico.
My tamale fiesta also hints of authenticity, including two sleek, corn husk-wrapped bundles -- one red chile pork, the other green corn -- plus rice, beans and a fountain drink. With such a name, I expect at least confetti or a party hat, yet that's it. But the homemade tamales are excellent, thick and moist masa dimpled with fiery shredded pork, green chile strips and jack cheese. The tamales are sold by the dozen, too, and I grab a bag to hoard in my freezer.
Stuffed enchiladas with my choice of shredded beef are winners, as well, unceremoniously topped by smooth sour cream, chopped iceberg lettuce and purple cabbage. This tooth-tender beef grabs the bit and charges, kicking up a flurry of burning spice in its wake. Carne asada, too, overflowing a burrito with large chunks of perfectly grilled beef, sneaks in a back-of-the-throat punch, thanks to gutsy chiles. It's tempered in the tiniest way by chunk tomato, onion and cilantro, but remember, gringo diners: This is not the whimpering, innocuous meat served at most Mexican-American joints.
Cowards would do better to order Mangos' chimichanga, tortilla salad or even the breakfast burrito (breakfast served all day). No surprises, here, but all are better than average. My chicken chimi sports a crisp and oil-free shell, loaded with a slightly dry pollo asado and topped with the usual suspects of guacamole, sour cream and jalapeño. And the shredded beef in the tortilla salad is simply that, vaguely sweet and oily, sans spicing, served on a familiar bed of greens, avocado and jalapeño.
But why play it safe when life is so wonderful with Mangos' fabulous chile verde burrito? It's a football-size piñata of succulent pork, the hearty chunks swimming in a thunderstorm of tingly green sauce. The same meat appears in a chile rojo burrito, the red sauce kicked up to an even higher octave. This, my friends, is a meal.
So it's obvious we're not thinking clearly when, at one lunch visit, my dining companion and I order nachos machos along with our entrees. We're feeling rowdy, two women of lumberjack appetites, pirates of the palate . . . until the nachos arrive. We haven't got a chance of tackling this hulking plate of chips, pollo asado, refried beans, jack and Cheddar cheeses, guacamole, sour cream and fresh jalapeños. Even without the entrees, it'd be a monumental task. We nibble, scoop and dunk for about three weeks and still don't make a dent.
If there's one rule I have regarding American-style Mexican dining, though, it's to avoid the refried beans and Spanish rice. These aren't rocket-science dishes, to be sure, but how often am I assaulted by bland canned beans and lurid orange rice tasting of sawdust? I poke at the side dishes hesitantly, taste and then taste again. Could it be? Someone forgot to tell the folks at Mangos that they could cut corners. The creamy, whole-bean blend topped with jack and mild Cheddar served here is good enough to order solo, while the salty rice is pleasingly clumpy and soft, speckled with tiny chiles. My faith is renewed.
But if there's one ironclad commandment I keep, it is this: Thou shalt not eat shrimp of any kind in an American-style Mexican restaurant (unless your job forces you to). I can guarantee the seafood will be an unapologetic mess, a watery mush, and more often than not, the unforgivable bay variety. Yet, again, the owners of Mangos didn't get the memo. Their shrimp is delivered daily, the cashier promises me, and if it's not good, it's not served. In fact, grilled shrimp is a cornerstone of the menu, arriving in burritos, tacos, tostadas, quesadillas and enchiladas.
Leaving nothing to chance, I order the most naked shrimp dish I can -- a combo taco and tostada. With no sauces, a corrupt crustacean cannot hide. All I taste is clean, firm shellfish, dusted with pepper and cilantro and a squeeze of lemon. Success! I toss in accompanying avocado, pico de gallo and salsa, wrap up my soft-taco package and enjoy.
I also opt for shrimp filling instead of chicken or beef in my stuffed quesadilla. If there's an opportunity to camouflage subpar seafood, it's under a thick mantle of cheese and sauces. Many crafty restaurateurs even chop up less perfect bits for greater concealment. What I get, though, are the same, fine shrimp, whole and perfectly grilled.
That's why it makes no sense that Mangos uses processed fish fillets in its fish dishes. The fish tastes like cod; I even ask twice, but my server shrugs and says, "I don't know what it is -- it doesn't say on the box." You can toss these tacos and burritos back. Dry breading isn't helped any by flash frying, and though the menu says there's fresh orange in the avocado salsa, I'm not biting.
It also makes little sense that Mangos' least gringo offering, the chorizo plate, falls flat. The coarsely ground pork sausage is too shy of garlic, chili powder and fire, further flattened by dry scrambled eggs. Pass on the huevo rancheros, too. The eggs are expertly yolky over medium, but a sweet tomatillo salsa overwhelms the plate. The best thing about the dishes is the potatoes -- grilled in large chunks and pleasingly firm.
If you like flan, finally, you'll appreciate Mangos' traditional custard, lightly dressed with caramelized syrup -- and there's no creepy gringo deep-fried ice cream served here, thank you.
This word-of-mouth referral is a dandy -- Mangos is one Mexican-American experience I can sink my teeth into.
Mangos Mexican Cafe, 44 West Main Street, Mesa, 480-464-5700. Hours: Breakfast, lunch and dinner, Monday through Saturday, 10 a.m. to 9 p.m.
