At first blush, Café Colao is the kind of place you want to root for. Its focus on the cuisine of Puerto Rico, so sorely underrepresented in Philadelphia, seems to hold all the promise of the kind of food-discovery that gets restaurant lovers out of bed in the morning. And its interior, a small, tiled dining room with a backyard grill off to the side, conjures images of freshly cooked meat and fish kissed by the telltale heat-streaking of the griddle. Even the artwork and music, both of which tend toward the jazz-centric, speak of warmth and relaxation.
But while all the surface elements seem to be in place, what lies beneath them is a foundation as rickety as the first impression is appealing.
The menu itself is workable if fairly one-dimensional: Of the ten entrees listed under the “Puerto Rican Cuisine Platters” heading, six of them are chicken-based. And though Café Colao is still a young spot, running out of so many dishes at the same time doesn’t instill much confidence. During a recent midweek visit, mofongo—mashed, seasoned green plantain—wasn’t an option, and of the five pastelillos listed on the menu, only two were available, a ham-and-cheese turnover and the cheese steak.
Fortunately, that cheese steak pastelillo worked. Its unabashedly goopy, American cheese-rich filling was infinitely enhanced by its casing, a turmeric-toned shell that split the difference between hearty and flaky with aplomb. Alcapurria, a slightly over-oily banana croquette, achieved a moderate level of success, its ground-beef filling singing with the gentle smoky heat of a Tabasco-like hot sauce mixed in.
Pollo frito was the best dish I tasted at Café Colao. Both the breast meat and the wing were moist enough to fall apart with the gentlest poke of the fork, and the paper-thin fried crust—more sheet than quilt—provided just enough snap to keep the texture interesting without obscuring any of the real focus of the bird. The sweet plantains off to the side, caramelized at their edges and exquisitely tender in the center, brought out a real sense of sweetness to the meat.
The flavor of the bistec encebollado also won me over, though it took some doing to get there. It arrived in a pool of oil and was coated with congealed bits of its own fat on top. It was also overcooked—if you’re going to serve a steak medium-gray, it’s best to warn the customer first. Still, the aggressive seasoning resulted in a piece of meat whose depth of savoriness saved it from its presentation. If only the red rice and sausage had been as well-seasoned; as it was, blandness, surprisingly, was its M.O.
So while the kitchen here leans a bit too heavily on heat and oil, it mostly manages to pull through as a result of the generally pleasant flavors it coaxes out of its ingredients. Far less successful—or, for that matter, understandable—is the heaping side of attitude that came along with each dish.
After being told by one of the two waitresses to have a seat wherever we liked, we sat there, marooned at our ineffectually-wiped-down table (caked flakes of chicken, it turned out, were hiding beneath our rolled-up napkin and utensils) for several minutes. Finally, after getting up and walking to the counter to ask if protocol was to order there, I was told, flat-voiced and without the merest hint of contrition, that she had forgotten we were at the table.
The rest of the desultory service followed suit, with neither a smile nor even the merest effort at pleasantries as part of the experience. Nearly through my chicken, for example, the waitress came over and informed me that she had forgotten the red beans that were to accompany the white rice. When I told her that I still wanted them, she brought them over with neither an apology nor any inkling of concern. And an inquiry about dessert was met with a cursory glance over her shoulder in the direction of the fridge by the counter: They were out, she said.
Perhaps inevitably, of course, they were not: Right there, in plain view, was half a cheese cake. Had I done something wrong? Had I offended the two waitresses in some way? I’m still racking my brain for an answer, because even after paying, neither one of them made the merest gesture in the direction of basic hospitality: No “Please come back,” no “Thanks for joining us,” no acknowledgement of having spent the past hour there.
Only on the way out, once we had crossed the threshold of the door, did a gentleman who I assume was involved with Café Colao thank us for coming and ask if we’d be back. Propriety dictated one of those little lies that social norms force upon us all. Of course we would, I said.
The truth, however, is that it was too little too late. The food was decent, sure, but when I’m made to feel as if my presence at the table is more a nuisance than a fundamental part of running a restaurant, I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t be running back.
AroundPhilly Staff
