Restaurant Review: Tia's Cocina

Turn up the heat

By: Rob DeWalt
Published online: Friday, November 04, 2011
Appeared in: Pasateimpo

It was at Rancho de Chimayó at the age of 12 that I first fell in love with New Mexico food and culture. Red and green chile challenged my Texas-style chili sensibilities, and I instantly became a fan of both. Pair that spicy game-changer in the historic village with a wealth of artistic virtue and deeply religious history, and what you get is a small slice of heaven on Earth.

Thirty years after my first life-altering bite of sopaipilla draped in honey butter at Rancho de Chimayó, my trips to the village are now rare, but lately, Santa Fe offers up a sort of Chimayó purgatory in the form of two new dining establishments: Casa Chimayó, which is housed in the former Water Street location of Los Mayas restaurant, and Tía’s Cocina, a new venture inside the recently remodeled and renamed Hotel Chimayó de Santa Fe.

Once called Hotel Plaza Real, Hotel Chimayó de Santa Fe is a property of Heritage Hotels and Resorts, which also owns Hotel St. Francis and The Lodge at Santa Fe. Manning the kitchen at Tía’s Cocina (which also services Low ’n’ Slow, the funky, friendly, lowrider- themed bar downstairs from the restaurant) is chef Estevan Garcia, former owner of the now-closed Café San Estevan and current head chef at Hotel Santa Fe.

Tía’s Cocina is decked out in true Chimayó-artisan style — angular hardwood furnishings and Catholic iconography play prominent roles. The space is carefully considered with the hotel’s name in mind. The food and service, however, need some attention.

During one lunch visit, a glass of red wine was delivered after I requested a glass of viognier, a white wine. When I pointed it out to a server (not our own; she went missing after the wine mishap), a replacement glass was eventually delivered — lipstick stain and all. During a dinner visit, my Manito cocktail, a combination of Patron Silver tequila, Cinzano Bianco, Aperol (a low-alcohol cousin to Cinzano), lemon juice, and agave nectar, arrived without its advertised Chimayó chile/lime-accented salt rim. When I notified the server, his response was, “Oh, I don’t think the bartender has any of that tonight.” Good to know.

Lunch and dinner menus pay homage to the cuisine of old and new Chimayó: tamales, posole, enchiladas, chile rellenos, guacamole, lengua (beef tongue), trout, sopaipillas, and tacos share real estate with green-chile cheeseburgers, Frito pies, and, of course, red and green sauces made with those legendary Chimayó chiles.

A guacamole portion was meager for the spend and lacked lime and seasoning, but the blue-corn tortilla chips were tasty and well salted. I’m not sure why the guac also came with stale wedges of fried flour tortilla, though. A pair of hot dogs arrived cold and dry, the tortillas burnt on the top. A side of Chimayó salsa rivaled its saucy red and green cousins in spiciness and vegetal complexity.

My lengua Chimayóso tacos were extremely tough and dry, but three accompanying salsas (chile arbol, pico de gallo, and roasted jalapeño) were delicious. It was supposed to come with a flour tortilla, but there was none. When I asked for the tortilla, it arrived dry, hard, and covered with burn marks from the gas stove. And I was charged for it.

Posole, beans, and Spanish-style rice are done well, although the promise of chicos (rehydrated, cooked dried corn with a smoky, earthy flavor) in the beans rang empty: it tasted like fresh corn off the cob, with watery kernels stuck together throughout.

My lengua dinner entree offered tender medallions of beef tongue and flavorful-yet-tame Chimayó red-chile sauce, but like almost everything ordered that night, it was lukewarm. Torta de huevo, a traditional Lenten dish (scrambled-egg fritters swimming in red chile sauce), was disappointing. The whipped-egg-white fluffiness that helps define these fritters was sidelined by a confounding leathery texture.

On the Plato de Chimayó combination plate, a pork tamale offered moist and airy masa and tender chile- accented pork, a perfect balance of texture and flavor. A lunchtime serving of natillas (a smooth custard with loose meringue) was grainy and overly soupy, its cinnamon dusting curiously absent.

Tia’s Cocina enjoys a well-traveled path, and its nostalgia-rich mission is a noble one. At the moment, that mission and its mode of execution appear to be at odds. The menu is solid and true to theme, but the care that goes into it, from stove to table, betrays the passion and artistry that ultimately serve as the restaurant’s divine inspirations.