‘Isn’t it supposed to be quieter here?” my friend said of the ear-splitting din in El Toro Blanco’s cozy-looking, carpeted little sanctuary a few steps off the main dining floor.
Well, not when 12 guys celebrate a birthday with sparklers and toasts to “Dude.” My decibel meter hit 90, equivalent to a motorcycle roaring past. There’s no peace anywhere inside this raucous home for the appropriately vague-sounding “new approach” Mexican cuisine.
El Toro Blanco is a welcome addition to a Manhattan scene that has more good Mexican (not Tex-Mex) restaurants than it once did. But the cuisine still struggles for respect, and self-respect, in a town that regards “Mexican” as an excuse to booze oneself blind (and cheaply, too).
El Toro Blanco claims no fidelity to a particular region, nor even to generalized Mexican “authenticity.” It’s a party scene and proud of it — but it’s a party with better comidas than it normally takes to please your average guzzler choosing from among 100 different tequilas.
The body-grinding front-bar scene can scare you off, but beyond it, things settle into a neo-adult groove. Even a few suits and ties pop up amid hard-edged confines framed in walnut and glazed brick. Banquettes in orange and gold lend a warm glow that’s superfluous after potent raspberry tequila sangria blended with hibiscus and ginger beer.
The food is less inclined to shock. You’ll find none of that corn fungus known as huitlacoche. Nor did I encounter a single traditional dark mole, although sweet red mole boasting 20-plus ingredients with roast chicken tamales was dandy.
But chef/partner Josh Capon, collaborating again with Lure Fishbar owner John McDonald, works the risk-averse playbook well. He lays on the heat: Well-modulated chilies spark dish after dish without overwhelming everything else on the plate.
Guacamole served with toasty-crisp chips is the spiciest I’ve had in ages. While doughy shrimp empanadas could moonlight as a tacky bar snack, intricately composed tamales and tacos ($9 to $17) reflect rare discipline.
My favorite was the cheapest: green corn tamales (elote verde). Near-pudding when I tried them a month ago, they matured into firm masa channeling the Mexican sun, garnished with green chile sauce and a crunchy roast of corn kernels, tomatoes, red onion and serrano chilies.
Prices are nearly as low as in slop joints. Tacos de nopales feed three for $14: a trio of warm corn tortillas filled with cactus and quinoa and drizzled with smoked chile vinaigrette,, the elements merrily mingling and tingling. Non-vegetarian tacos aren’t for those watching their sugar: al pastor (spit-roasted pork) and tinga de pollo (pulled chicken) can be sweeter than the charming floor crew.
“Chef says you’ve got to have it,” a waitress announced through the racket when she brought us unbidden frijoles borrachos, mezcal-laced drunken beans ($5) worthy of the name and muscular with pork, bacon and beer.
Some main courses ($19 to $25) register as modern-American with south-of-the-border accents — not bad, not special. Gulf shrimp “en mojo de ajo” tasted of iodine. Calling grilled swordfish “parrillada” doesn’t make it Mexican despite “salsa” and pointless tortillas on the side.
Desserts ($8) draw smiles, like churros deep-fried to a crisp turn you won’t find in those sold in the subway. Finish with one more margarita for the ride home, and you might no longer hear a thing.