Rants and Ramblings: random commentary about culture, media, politics, technology and whatnot.

dining out

On Thursday night, Rob and I ventured out to Crystal City to check out Oyamel, a Mexican restaurant I’ve been wanting to check out for a while. When we first arrived, there seemed to be a bit of confusion about whether we could be seated right away, and after a few minutes we were offered a choice: take the small table for two available now, or wait ten minutes or so for a better table to open up. The hostess was really pushing the small table — “I don’t know why people seem so afraid to sit there. There’s nothing wrong with it.” — and we warily accepted. In all honesty, there really wasn’t anything wrong with the table, except for the fact that Rob and I couldn’t hear each other talk while we debated our dinner selections because a mariachi band had started playing at the bar, just a few yards away. The mariachis finished their set soon enough, though, and sat down at a large table near us for their own dinner.

Like sister restaurant Jaleo, Oyamel takes a tapas-style approach to most of its dishes, featuring small appetizers and a menu of tacos. I was cautiously pleased by the food that we ordered — two types of tacos, grilled scallops in an avocado sauce and a small mushroom quesadilla. The food was fairly good, but not quite as good as I had hoped; I think I need to return and sample more of the menu before I can decide whether or not I really like the place.

I was entranced by the decor, though — in particular the large mobiles that echo the restaurant’s butterfly motif. And the layout of the room reminded me a bit of Zaytinya, another sister restaurant that specializes in Mediterranean food.

On Friday night, after Rob returned from volleyball, we made a late-night visit to Toscana Grill, an Italian restaurant just downstairs from our apartment. As we considered our dinner options, a man came up to our desk to fill our water glasses. “Have you been here before?” he asked us. Rob replied that we’d been to the restaurant once before and liked the food.

The man made a face. “Well, I’m from Capistrano,” he said. “My mother and my grandmother make their sauces for three days, and they make their own pasta. This … eh …. doesn’t even compare.” He hastily added, “But if you can’t go to Italy, I guess…”

About 20 minutes later, after we’d finished our meal, he asked us how we’d liked the food. With muted enthusiasm, unsure of how to respond to someone who’d so soundly put down his own restaurant, we murmured that we’d enjoyed our dinner, then got up and headed home.