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