Review: Distrito

Forget, for a moment, the uncomfortable anthropomorphization of fattened goose liver. And try to ignore the obvious difficulty you might have in wrapping you mind around the image of said liver shedding tears of jealousy at another food item’s richness. The point is this: In true Jose Garces style, he managed to take one of the humblest ingredients of our modern food lexicon and transmogrify it into something altogether more spectacular than it really had any right to be. The dish was really just two bones on a plate, for heaven’s sake!

 

But what bones. Gloriously roasted for hours until their dense insides grew soft and spongy, they were brought to the table with little side cups of cilantro, jalapeños, finely chopped onions and bacon marmalade. (Okay, that marmalade bit isn’t really a minor-key sort of accompaniment, but its strict refusal to be anything other than what it was supposed to be, which is to say sweet and bacony, put it firmly into the comfort-food miracle category if you ask me.) Spread onto a warm, soft tortilla and sprinkled with its accoutrements, it was pure magic. I don’t know about the foie shedding a tear, but I came awfully close.

 

That’s just the way things tend to be at Distrito. Not everything was that emotional, of course; some dishes were merely pretty good. Huarache los hongos, for example, struggled under the weight of an oppressive mushroom earthiness that wasn’t really countered by anything of similar weight. The combination of forest mushrooms, black truffle and huitlacoche sauce rendered each a mere note in the assembly, whereas their own flavors were interesting enough to have been given a bit more of the spotlight individually. (The melted cheese and corn shoots didn’t really do anything to lighten up the proceedings.) And guisados, though addictive in their juxtaposition of super-savory short ribs, sweet-tingly barbecue sauce and poblano crema, were crowned by a frizzle of radish matchsticks that would have worked better had they been integrated into the combination as a whole.

 

But these are trifling issues compared with the overall quality and fun—yes, fun!—of the experience as a whole, from the standout dishes (nearly all of the nine I’ve tasted), to the lucha libre gimp suit-style masks lining the wall running along the staircase, to the music (a live guitar player, at one point, belted out a particularly spectacular version of Sweet Caroline…in Spanish), to the service, which, as fans of Amada and Tinto will recognize and appreciate, was well-choreographed, knowledgeable and never pedantic when answering questions about ingredients you might not be familiar with.

 

But it’s the food here that’s the focus, and what a focus it is. Cilantro-perfumed octopus ceviche was meaty and hearty yet somehow light on its feet (or tentacles). The bright acid of orange was balanced out by the smoky character of habañero and a whistling line of mint in the hamachi ceviche.

 

And the tongue taco is every bit as otherworldly as it’s rumored to be. Until Distrito came along, La Lupe, in my book, took the title for best use of tongue in town. (Hold the jokes, please…) But here, the surprisingly thick slices found that perfect middle ground between cold-cut comfort and organ-y density. Salsa verde kept it bright enough, and a guajillo chile glaze left a tingling at the back of the throat that played beautifully with the lingering aftertaste of the tongue itself. Even humble chicken tacos were studies in moistness, balance and the kind of pure flavors that allow a standard like that to justify a second look.

 

And though I cannot believe I’m writing this, the duck barbacoa in the queso fundido has replaced Peking duck at Chinatown’s Sang Kee as my new favorite use of that bird. Vegetarians can argue the relative cuteness factors of rabbits and ducks and chickens (oh my!) all they want: This feathered creature died for a good cause.

 

Drinks were made with the same level of care and attention to detail as the food. Margarita, for example, didn’t eschew the bright citric zip that too many ultimately do; as a result, its sweetness was tempered in exactly the right way. El monito, a fruity (but not “girly”; I hate the idea that cocktails can peddle in gender issues, cosmo’s notwithstanding) concoction of Hornitos Reposado tequila, lime and guava, was both dangerously easy to swig and the healthiest thing I’d consumed all week up to the evening I tasted it.

 

Histrionics aside, Tom’s reaction was very much in keeping with the kind of experience that Distrito provides. It’s not fancy, and it’s surroundings are not terribly refined. (Nor would I want them to be.) But in its boldness and willingness to work in big flavors and textures, this restaurant has quickly become one of the city’s worthiest ways to part with your hard-earned cash. And definitely worth the ride to Penn to spend it. Just bring a Kleenex or a hankie: Emotions can run high here.