By David Minsky
By Jen Mangham
By Bill Wisser
By Laine Doss
By Bill Wisser
By Dana De Greff
By Laine Doss
By Zachary Fagenson
It's a family affair, owner Eduardo Durazo partnering with brother-in-law Eduardo Del Rivero, nephew Oscar Del Rivero (the chef), and longtime family friend David Quintero, who created some of the artwork in the colorful and commodious 210-seat dining room. For all the familial connections, however, Jaguar appears awfully franchised -- as if the designers were trying to blueprint a Central American-themed Cheesecake Factory or maybe a tropical Houston's, judging by the way the bar barrels all the way up the left side of the space. The walls are splashed in rich, warm mustard and rust hues produced from natural Oaxacan flower pigments. Tiki lanterns and butterfly mobiles dangle from a lofty ceiling; paintings by artist Dionisio Ceballos, whose reproductions were showcased in Frida, adorn the walls. The front of the restaurant is mostly glass and opens onto Grand Avenue's outdoor seating area.
We began with a complimentary basket of assorted fried chips -- blue and yellow corn, and some sort of pitalike bread -- and a dish of extremely piquant chipotle-sparked chimichurri rojo. Then we were brought a basket with four rolls so rock-hard as to be impenetrable. At this point I thought to myself: Uh-oh.
Frothy ceviches whipped our spirits back up. The spoon bar represents a modest display of half a dozen offerings for $1.75 per small ceramic spoonful (which equates to about two little bites and sips -- or one big gulp). An ideal means of introducing yourself to the full spectrum of selections is to try a six-pack sampler containing one of each. Once you've determined your favorite, you can get what they call an "Amazon spoon," or what the rest of us might refer to as a regular portion.
Some waiters are well versed in the nuances of each ceviche, others clueless (but all cheerful and friendly). In either case, menu descriptions are accurately detailed. The favorites at our table: citrus-juiced tiger shrimp flecked with bits of avocado, jalapeño, and jicama, all sizzled with a hot drizzle of guajillo chili oil; minced swordfish bathed in spicy, bright yellow aji amarillo heightened with cumin, garlic, and vinegar; and Atlantic salmon with mustard and lemon sauce invigorated by fresh tarragon and chervil. Least successful was corvina in a traditional cilantro-lime juice base, the marinade overwhelmed by off-onion aroma.
There are no other appetizers besides ceviche, although you could ostensibly split an entrée salad such as tuna Peruvian-style (similar to niçoise, with potato, green beans, and hard-boiled egg); shrimp and mangoes with lemon, mint, and jalapeño vinaigrette; or the obligatory "Mexican" chopped salad with black beans and corn, served in those atrocious tortilla shells that inevitably taste as though they've been sitting on a shelf for a few weeks. A couple of smaller side salads are also available, like a little caesar composed of crisp romaine leaves and a well-balanced dressing -- but our serving was betrayed by croutons that tasted of old oil.
Another option for starting out would be to share one of Jaguar's Mexican main course plates. A quartet of empanadas seemed particularly apt as an appetizer for the four of us. The billowy golden brown pastries, filled with the Yucatecan slow-cooked pork dish cochinita pibil, were disappointingly dull and dry inside, although guacamole and the traditional cochinita accompaniment of pickled onions perked things up a bit. It was regrettable, however, that the waiter had misunderstood our request and brought the empanadas at the same time as our entrées. That some staff members here are seriously undertrained became more apparent as the meal progressed.
Other Mex selections satisfied in an unassuming manner. Four blue corn tortillas were wrapped around shredded, savorily seasoned chicken and then greasily pan-fried and halved so each of the eight resultant taco rolls looked like a short cigar. A duo of tamales, one with shrimp in guajillo and ancho chili adobo, another with pulled chicken in salsa verde, were neatly presented upon clean, cool corn husks; it didn't appear as though the masa and garnishes were steamed inside those husks, but both proved fairly flavorful.
The Latam grill's "Midwestern corn-fed USDA choice" steaks include four American cuts (rib eye, New York strip, T-bone, and tenderloin) in ten- or fourteen-ounce portions and Latin specialties (palomilla, falda, and churrasco) weighing between eight and twelve ounces. We tried the falda, a thick sirloin-shaped cut taken from the flank, cooked to a juicy-red medium-rare. Other char-grilled items include shrimp, chicken breasts, cheeseburgers, and a fourteen-ounce pork "porterhouse," which was imbued with smoke and spice but was tough and overcooked.
Eight types of chimichurri, salsa, and relish -- ranging from mild to yeow! -- are yours for the asking. The Chilean pebre, with habanero chili, garlic, cilantro, vinegar, and lime juice, falls in the midheat range and enhanced the steak nicely. House chimichurri is distinctively dominated by the taste of tarragon and likewise a worthy suitor for the beef -- béarnaise sauce without the hollandaise, so to speak.