St. Pete-ians and Tampons alike looooooove their Red Mesa, the quasi-Mexican, quasi-fine dining restaurant nestled idiosyncratically between Applebees and Word of Beer on 4th Street. Critics and locals have showered praise on this place since it opened in 1996. My personal experiences with Red Mesa have been uneven, to say the least. The first three times I ate there, I was like, "meh." It was years before I returned--and only then because some friends made me.
Don't get me wrong--this IS going to turn into a positive review, and I've had some FAB food at Mesa. There was the Famous Fruit Mole of '02, which I still describe to my friends through tears of lingering ecstasy. I persist in lamenting
(1) the loss of the Grilled Pork Chop Stuffed with Goat Cheese/Apple/Walnut in OMFG-That's-Good smoky tomato broth. The specials menu reliably taunts me with huitlacoche quesadillas
(2), guacamole trios, and inventive ceviches. Shrimp and feta queso fundido is swoon-worthy.
Overall, though, Mesa--much like Nicole Kidman--does not live up to its rep. Anything that sounds like something on a typical Mexican restaurant menu (cheese enchiladas, chile rellenos, skirt steak tacos) proves simple and bland. The rice and black bean "congri" that accompanies damn near everything on the menu is just lame. Chunks of dry, fatty pork float in a greasy, bland chili verde sauce in one of the most popular (!) dishes, and chipotle shrimp are too spicy and flavorless (quite a feat) to do any justice to Mesa's customary prowess with the smoky
(3) chiles.
If you work for Red Mesa and are reading this, I swear to you that The Praise Begins Now.
Where Mesa really shines is at Sunday brunch. Typically a restaurant's throw away service, brunch here plays to the kitchen's strengths--every egg dish is accompanied by two or three of those genius salsas, with varying heat levels, textures, and flavor profiles, and there are enough choices on the menu to satisfy the hungover hipsters, their discerning children, and the wealthy oldsters who cram into the booths and freeze their asses off.
(4)
Typically, I waffle between the Migas (fluffy eggs scrambled around strips of crunchy poblano peppers, caramelized onions, and crisp tortillas, served with a brothy, smoky salsa and so-so refried beans) and the Shrimp and Grits--different from anything you'll find in South Carolina's Low Country, but the best I've ever had. This morning, I chose the latter, and they arrived pitch-perfect, as usual: plump, unbelievably sweet shrimp doused in a creamy chipotle sauce with more of those poblano and onion
rajas, soaking into a volcano of velvety grits. They thoughtfully sprinkle on some sliced scallions, adding crunch and verve, and a shredded aged cheese of such deliciousness that I can hardly stop salivating long enough to describe it.
(5)
Other winning dishes: chilaquiles roja, which confirms my suspicion that Red Mesa should just soak shit in salsa and bringitrightheretomytableNOW, huevos rancheros (more sophisticated than usual and all the better for it), and guava-stuffed French toast. Also, their fruit salad is dressed with a lime syrup that's even yummier because it cancels out any potential fruit-related health benefits. Burritos are more filling than they look. Potato-chorizo hash sounds better than it is (which kills me, because potatoes + chorizo = my happy place). Coffee is strong and delicious, and their kids' menu is brief (a good thing), healthy, and reasonably priced--and it's not patronizing: the tots get the same spicy sausage as their taller dining companions.
Did I mention that it's ridiculously cheap? On a Friday night, our bill for 2 has never been less than $60; after a brunch-for-three so big we're on hammocks for the better part of the afternoon, the receipt freaks me out with its $24 bottom line.
Service is always spot on at Red Mesa, even at brunch when servers at lesser establishments are often hungover and angry about having to be perky at 9 am while a bunch of noisy kids grind strawberries into the carpet.
If you've been disappointed with Red Mesa in the past (I'm looking at you, Lemdrichs), try again on a Sunday. If you've never been, start with brunch...and maybe end there, too. For dinner, I'd recommend gettin' yer fancy shoes on, hiring a babysitter, and braving the scene at their hipper downtown spot, Red Mesa Cantina. Their drinks are strong, their tacos are cheap, and the crowd will make it easy to pretend you're still cool.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
What, you don't like footnotes? Too bad--I'm an academic. Suck it.
(1) Along with the server who has an uncanny knack for getting our table every single time. Which reminds me: a testament to Red Mesa's Doing Something Right is the insane degree of server loyalty. There are about five servers whom I see every time we go in there, be it a Friday night, a Wednesday lunch, or a Sunday morning. They've been there ten years, at least. That's unheard of in this fickle town.
(2) Holy crap, these were good. WHY ARE WE NOT EATING MORE CORN FUNGUS, AMERICA??
(3) How many times am I going to use the word "smoky" in this post? Only 3. But I should use it more, because Red Mesa's smoky is the most epic and craveable smoky in town. (Oh, look--that's 5. Boo-yah.)
(4) I'm serious: bring a sweater.
(5) Come to think of it, next to salsas, cheese may be Red Mesa's biggest win. There must be 7 or 8 "garnish" cheeses in that kitchen, and they shred/grate/crumble/melt each one onto its ideal partner EVERY SINGLE TIME. Even on the humblest of Mesa plates, I've never been disappointed by the cheese.
