Salpicon has been compared to Frontera (where chef Priscilla Satkoff used to work), ever since it opened in the spring. Thrilled by the prospect of another fabulous regional Mexican restaurant–and wary of disappointment–I’ve been hesitant to indulge. But a night last week seemed to call for margaritas. We found damn fine ones–mixed from an elaborate tequila list–and the sort of outraged debate they can inspire. By comparison, the dishes that paraded across our table held our attention only briefly.
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Salpicon, according to the definitions on the front of the menu, can mean a “splash” of flavor. But the effect was more like a brute tidal wave. Not, shall we say, subtle.
Camarones al Carbon Slightly underdone shrimp served in the most dazzling fashion, on two semicircles of sauce, one bright green, the other deep red, set off with four perfect slivers of brilliant mango. Appealing taste, stunning spectacle.
For dessert we picked at some bitter orange rinds soaking in syrup, a Mexican chocolate cake unrelieved of crumby dryness by its center ribbon of ganache, and a terrific dense deep chocolate mousse. There’s a dish I don’t mind splashing into.
