Santa Fe Tequila Company

They went back to their stations when our order went in — a spread of chips (cold) and guac (decent, but light on the lime), posole, green-chile stew, barbecued ribs, mashed potatoes smothered in red chile, camarones fritos and green-chile chicken enchiladas. Some of the stuff fairly flew to our table, some came very slowly, and there was no obvious attempt at reasonable spacing or flighting. But the waits gave me time to absorb the menu (and a couple more drinks). Many dishes were lifted from our more famous Southern neighbors: There were Navajo tacos (Indian fry bread topped with taco fixings) straight out of every truck stop and casino parking lot in the Land of Enchantment; a carne adobada inspired by Leona's in Chimayo; the steak Rosalea named for Rosalea Murphy of the Pink Adobe in Santa Fe; and enchiladas (served rolled) that were close enough to those I put to the rail fifty or a hundred times a night at the Range that I could describe to you every step in their prep and plating. In some cases, the menu listed the affiliation of a particular dish; in others, it didn't. I've been at this game long enough that I appreciate creative borrowing. I appreciate it even more when it's done well.

Which it was, with the excellent camarones fritos. The fat shrimp, jacketed in fried masa and dusted with chile powder, came in a basket with a brace of sauces (rémoulades, actually — one red and one green) for dipping. The shrimp hit my belly like a brick, true, but I would've gladly suffered the weight for a second order. But the carne adobada was a mess. It had spent too long in the braise, the pork shoulder almost disintegrating, its flavor buried under the smoky bitterness of the Chimayo red chile without the necessary edge of sweetness. The best red-chile sauces are a mix of pleasure and pain, like licking honey off a razor blade — a savage heat followed by a slow burn, braced against a deep smokiness balanced by a blooming sweetness. This sauce didn't have that complexity, that depth of feeling. The ribs suffered from the opposite problem, being too complex by half — sauced in an ancho-pineapple-brandy-brown-sugar sauce that was tantamount to Alexander sculpting the Venus de Milo and then putting a clock in her stomach. The result was a decent rib (which wanted for either a bit more smoke or a bit more texture, depending on the bite) made nearly inedible by a sauce that stuck like glue and made every mouthful taste like candy.

I liked the enchiladas (even if no one else did) because they were an accurate representation of New Mexican grub — the chicken coming from a bath in the hot table, bland and plain, wrapped in blue corn tortillas and then sauced with a creamy green chile in the Santa Fe style. (The difference between Santa Fe verde and the Albuquerque version can generally be measured by a scant handful of flour, a sprinkling of cornstarch or arrowroot — sixty minutes of northward travel making the green a little thicker, a little cloudier, a little stickier than that in 'Burque.) And while I could've done without the mantle of melted cheese on top, that, too, was traditional enough. I returned to that plate again and again, since both the posole and the green-chile stew were nightmares — the former completely flavorless, with too-soft hominy, chunks of pork that chewed like sponges and a broth like water, the latter all sticky heat and muddled flavors. The heart of New Mexican cuisine beats in its posole and green-chile stew, but these dishes lacked any kind of high-desert soul.

Subsequent visits to the Tequila Company did nothing to tilt the scales. For every good plate (a carne asada made up like a South Texas fajita plate, satisfying in its simplicity), there was another bad moment (like dried-out steam-table mashed potatoes or pinto beans served in a goo with the consistency of dish soap and the taste of sour onion purée). The lovely dining room was nearly always empty — save for prospective cooks and servers crouched over tables, filling out applications and being hired on the spot — either for the second Santa Fe Tequila Company location, due to open shortly, or to fill posts so recently vacated here that the shadows of former employees were still not out the door.

While I enjoyed the sense of stepping back once more into the world I so fully inhabited just a few years ago during my own turn through the Land of Enchantment, I did not enjoy the sense of a house in trouble, suffering from low counts and too-slow services. When I was cooking, I could spot a sinking vessel from a mile off. And these days, I still know when to abandon ship.