Oyamel: A Good Spot to Land
This post written by DCist contributor, Matt Cordell
After watching Jose Andres easily handle Bobby Flay a few weeks ago in Iron Chef "Battle Goat," I expected to suffer the same treatment when I sat down at the newly relocated Oyamel. I prepared to be flayed like Flay. I thought I would be laid low by his ceviche, knocked out by his potables, and rendered dumb by the small plates of D.C.'s undisputed king of tapas. In the end, I'm a little sad to say, I fared far better than Bobby.
Andres started with an advantage; when I first walked into Oyamel, I was knocked off guard, overwhelmed with a strange sense of deja vu. Although I couldn't put my finger on it at first, after I prodded a few customers, checked under the cushions, and jiggled the handle, I realized that Oyamel was a doppelgänger for Rasika, where I had dined just two nights earlier. Although adorned with the signature tin butterflies ("Oyamel" is a fir species native to Mexico and the preferred landing spot of the monarch butterfly), a video projection of a Mexican market above the ceviche bar, and a Gothic candelabra in the corner, the interior was uncannily similar.
What followed was a few stiff jabs, mingled with some surprisingly soft shots. The red snapper ceviche (ceviche de huachinango) with avocado, cilantro, and lime was unbelievably sharp and fresh--not to be missed. But the red snapper entree (huachinango al estilo de Veracruz, guacamole y totopos de maiz) has diminished since we looked at it last. The tacos of baby pig confit (with tomatillo sauce, pork rinds, and cilantro) were nice, simple, and flavorful. But the grilled skirt steak (arrachera con salsa de chile guajillo), while marinated and prepared well, was accompanied by a tomato sauce that was too easily lost. The stuffed poblano (chile en nogada), even if it
could overcome its disturbing taupe-tinted sauce, had an odd texture and simple taste. And the much-touted cricket tacos just tasted like crunch -- with avocado. It's a parlor trick.
He did start and finish exceptionally well. He had stamina. The cocktails and deserts were stellar. Sipping the "Oyamel" with "Salt Air" was like body surfing a wave of top-shelf margarita without the fear of drowning. By foaming the salt flavor, Andres has cleverly avoided the overwhelming (but necessary) hit of salt incurred when drinking salt-rimmed 'rita. The "nieve de flor de jamaica", although it had the consistency of an hour-old sno-cone, also had flavors that absolutely popped, anchored by a sublime and exotic herbiness of hibiscus and accented by triple sec, lime, Herradura Silver. The Bourbon Passion, hit exactly the right jalapeño note above the tang of the passion fruit and the sweet of the Makers Mark (I'm a sucker for spice in cocktails). As far as deserts go, the rum cake (pastel de tres leches con piña) was a scrumptious balance of complex flavors, including Myers rum, three types of milk with pineapple salsa and gelatin, and a small scoop of caramel ice cream.
The ultimate question is why. Why didn't the brilliant restaurateur knock me on my ass? Is he stretched thin, unable to give his utmost attention to every dish? Probably. But, all in all, D.C.'s better off that José does things the way he does. Sure, we don't get the
absolutely best. But, were he to focus on one spot, we'd have to do without Zaytinya, Oyamel, minibar by José Andrés, and Café Atlántico. That's something I, and the rest of culinary D.C., probably couldn't live with.
Go to Oyamel, but don't worry, you can let your guard down.