ROCCO'S TACOS

Rocco's Tacos has a few things going for it. Unfortunately, few of those things are the food. Whoever designed the room deserves a bonus, but one wishes some of that creative's ingenuity and integrity would've rubbed off on the chef.  Or is there a chef?  I doubt it, or at least s/he's not on site, given that there are Rocco's franchises spanning from southern Florida all the way up to this joint in Brooklyn.

There is a distinct otherworldly, pan-galaxial party going on here, though.  Like a futuristic Trekkie disco fiesta. Star-shaped lanterns are suspended from the ceiling, speckled to release a twinkly
 spectrum of illumination.   Star Trek masks are painted with classic Day of the Dead embellishments, and massive looming paintings of skulls both enchant and haunt.  

The servers are clad in generic black t-shirts and pants- and for the most part their demeanor is similarly bleak.  All of this notwithstanding, the place is bewilderingly busy, but then again the first thing you see on their website is "Where will you tequila dance", which implies that maybe the most important things at Rocco's the drinks and the party.



That's nothing to shake a stick at: the festive atmosphere certainly made the mostly sub-mediocre food seem at least mediocre.  That said, we started off with some super tasty homemade chips, warm and crisp and dusted with a mild savory blend of spices.  They're good enough with the guac smashed tableside in an attractive grey stone molcajete: it would not be a bad idea to double down with these and a pitcher of margaritas and just leave it at that.  The house salsa (which seemed to me more a pico de gallo) was fine: a but watery and little sweet, but

 some salsa is certainly requisite 'cause the food isn't hyper-seasoned.  Even the boring little ensalada mixta benefitted from a few ladelfuls of the sauce, since it's oil-slicked leaves were a little greasy and didn't have a lot else going on but for some scant pepitas, and cotija cheese that mostly sank to the bottom.



If you do end up here, you're best off in a big group, because the menu is pretty huge, and I'm guessing there are proxy better options than what we ordered, but still, this place is no Empellon.  The fish tacos (which I would've preferred  grilled or blackened, but my tablemate had them battered and fried) are $6.50 each, so a monstrous portion of three hulking tacos requires a voracious appetite is required to finish.  They're  served upright in their little custom metal holder, sporting a nice golden crust but the fish (mahi-mahi) was a little fishy.  They were shrouded generously with a jalapeño-flecked slaw, and sided with soupy black beans and rice.   Fish (understandably) are the pricier tacos, along with camarones, carne asado and chorizo.  The pollo, carne molido, cochinitas achiote and hongos are a couple bucks less.











The pollo al carbón from the Especiales de la Casa may have gotten a little too close to the carbón;  was dry and tough, although the salty-sweet grilled plantains helped loosen things up a bit.  Vegetarian enchiladas were another story, almost entirely bereft of the tomatillo sauce that would have actually made them enchiladas.  Instead, they were basically two soft corn tacos, not even properly furled shut, just lolling open and grotesquely cloaked in melted cheese.  The filling was a mostly steamed cauliflower and some roasted peppers, with some ruddy sauce inside that somewhat compensated for the dry exterior.  They were plated with a mild, tender yellow rice and a horrifying coagulated clod of crusty, sticky refried beans, reminiscent of the Old El Paso canned variety, but even worse.

And then, like murky, ominous clouds parting to reveal a glimmer of late morning sun, dessert arrived.  They serve a fantastic très leches, soaked in a light, eggy custard and topped with a toasted marshmallowy crown of fluff, ridiculously sweet but delightful.  And yes, I admit that perhaps the cake tasted even better after all of  the lackluster fare that preceded it, but if you go straight from the chips-salsa-and-guac beginning to that three-milk finale and forget whatever happened in between, Rocco's turns out not to be half bad.  And maybe that is exactly what margaritas are for.

                                                       So, like the big mural says, "May the force be with you."

339 Adams Street

tel . 718.246.8226

STUDIO at The Freehand Hotel

The Happy Cooking guys continue on their successful track.   They're nudging up on Major Food Group in my rankings..... and that is a lofty position.  Studio opened up in the Freehand Hotel, for which Game Stulman's unstoppable restaurant group is entirely responsible- and that's a lot of moving parts.  We've already awarded Simon & The Whale with glowing approval, and in addition they handle all room service, the adjacent bar The Broken Shaker as well as the exclusive George Washington Bar upstairs.  Across a foyer from the latter lies Studio,  which chalks up no differently.  It's a wonderfully lofty space, deep cerulean walls and potted palms channel somewhere vacationy, somewhere desirably unManhattany.  And even though the feel of the room might imply a tropical clime, it still feels like an escape
 even in the midst of a New York City hot and humid summer, when even midtown's muggy heat rivals similarly tropical destinations. Here it feels a little Moroccan, or Turkish, which is also the vibe reflected in the menu.


For me, the menu is like one of those that you might wish had the Alta Option, where for $600 you can have one of every single item offered.  The food is simple in preparation but rampant with exotic spices like ras el hanout, and heavy on the tumeric, sumac and cumin.   Mezze  kick things off with rich dips like black eyed pea-hummus with braised oxtail or a garlicky spinach yogurt, perfect for swabbing up with thick, oiled slabs of yogurt and whole wheat sourdough flatbreads, worth ordering for the
 extra six bucks.  The other categories are small Plates, Sides and Mains, some of the best dishes of the night coming from the former.  A brilliant jewel-toned array of heirloom tomatoes fresh from the farmer's market just blocks away are nuzzled into a creamy tahini-based puree flecked with pungent scallions and drizzled with verdant basil oil.  A special salad that night featured the last of the market asparagus, fresh tender spears rife with the heady perfume of the most fragrant campfire ever, piled with tufts of friseé and cooled with yogurt.


We tried - or make that my TABLEmates tried- the chicken cigarillos, which before I got a decent picture they had more or less devoured, but I snapped a shot of the last remaining one, greaselessly golden crisp batons plumped with savory spiced ground chicken, with a squiggle of savory yogurt sauce and dusting of sumac.  Of course, quick as they were gone from my table is a quick as they were removed from the menu, so my shoddy picture (and description) is double useless since you can't order them anymore, anyways.






 I was initially disappointed (unjustifiably) that the carrot side dish that arrived was not an array of colorful greenmarket specimens encrusted in Moroccan spices and roasted 'til their spindly ends crisped up with char, but instead this salady slaw tenderized raw carrot ribbons to a noodle-like consistency, amplifying their natural sweetness with golden raisins and ruby pomegranate seeds.  I missed any parsley as stated on the menu, but a delicate tangle of frondy pea shoots more than compensated.  But this too, has ebbed away in favor of a shaved cauliflower with herbed labneh: it seems the offerings at Studio are seasonally ephemeral, so expect plenty of variation from what I ate to when you visit.

Main courses incur the same temperamentality, but the consistent quality endures.  One stable option is a grain bowl including black kale and avocado, to which we  added roasted chicken to appease the omnivore.  A spritz of pepitas and nutty sesame seeds contributed nice crunchy moments to the trendy mainstay.   A meatier option featured juicy slabs of sliced skirt steak slathered in (zhoug, shug, schug, zhough, or here) zhug, the hippest condiment of the moment, draped over a bounty of frilly frisee and first-of-the market green beans.   A whole trout looked decidedly forlorn on the plate, but he was a deceptively plump and tasty fish, flaky fleshed mystically flavored from the inside out, and served with a little pile of sweetly chewy roasted beets and a magnificent uber-garlic aioli that I was generous enough to share dabs of with everyone, and it improved everything it touched.







And I can say that unreservedly, because we didn't get dessert (something aioli should never be a part of).  Sweet options tend starchy, although quirky and innovative. We didn't end up opting for any of the Black Sesame Sponge Cake, Baklava Ice Cream, Labneh Cheesecake or Cookie Platter with pistachios and blueberry tahini, but you get where things are going.  Certainly wouldn't have turned something down if another one of my tablemates had wanted to partake, but nothing jumped out at us- and we were pretty full.

So add it to the list of all of Happy Cooking's success stories, with the added bonus of having a built-in audience from the hotel downstairs, and I'm guessing Studio will have good staying power.  And a much more transporting atmosphere once this summer's atrocious heat and humidity have dissipated, and Studio's reenactment of a balmy tropical elsewhere becomes even more attractive.




23 Lexington Avenue
Freehand Hotel, Mezzanine Floor