With its theatrical interior--all gilded frames and ornate screens; mustard, purple, and fuchsia walls; funky paintings and artsy wood, Mexican soaps blaring from the bar's TV--and sassy waiters, Galerias has always struck me as a campy eating experience.
Even the menus (huge silver metal three-ring binders for dinner and even larger picture-frame menus for lunch: you could hurt someone with those things) hint at excess and whimsy, with ingredients and presentations unlike any other Mexican restaurant I've ever been to. Galerias convinces me that I was ignorant about Mexican food: it's not all Cal-Mex Mission-style burritos, or those mom 'n' pop taquerias down in Georgetown with homemade tamales and Spanish-only menus. Galerias is more Like Water for Chocolate than Three Amigos, with unconventional flavors like rose-petal sauce and hibiscus-flower salad dressing, details like amaranto seeds and exotic chilies and Jerez sherry, and tropical fruit garnishes that stray far from the fried-and-refried-and-smothered-with-Monterey Jack formula most gringo burrito fans know. With all the vivid color and drama on the plate and in the dining room, it's no wonder I've always thought this place to be amusingly tongue-in-cheek.
But then I got to thinking about camp, and how, really, the idea of camp actually comes from an earnest, authentic place, evolving from original roots. How, as Susan Sontag wrote, camp is "the love of the exaggerated" and the "glorification of 'character.'" Which threw me into a research frenzy about authentic regional Mexican cuisine.
The more I read about regional food from places like Oaxaca (what one guidebook lovingly called the "southern bulge of Mexico"), or Puebla, or Guanajuato, and other states and coastal regions, the more I realized that Galerias is not the brainchild of a flashy Latino queen. This place is the real deal. This is exactly the food you eat when you're in Oaxaca. This kitchen does not fuck around.
Take, for instance, the Ensalada con Espinacas y Mango ($5.95), which marries tender spinach leaves with fresh mango slices and a pink hibiscus dressing. The sweetness of the mangos goes surprisingly well with spinach, and the hibiscus and rich walnuts tie it all together. The Rosas Rojas en el Mar ($15.75) would be just another ho-hum piece of broiled halibut if it weren't for the mango sauce and just-plucked crimson rose petals scattered across the fish. It's the unique sauce infused with roses that makes this dish memorable. Ditto for the David Alfaro Siqueiros (tequila-marinated chicken with an intoxicating tomato-tequila-chili salsa, $12) and the Chilaquiles ($5.75)--tortilla strips immersed in a puddle of scallion-and-cilantro-heavy green sauce with an addictive salty/spicy sharpness.
After a few entrées, the secrets of Galerias' palate seduction become obvious: It's all about the sauce.
Do not leave without trying the complex mole, spooned over enchiladas ($9.95) or grilled chicken breast ($12.75). With its alchemy of six different chilies, roasted almonds, cinnamon, cloves (they're what make mole sauce taste like Christmas), piloncillo, and Mexican chocolate, the stuff is incredible--intense, robust, skillfully rendered. Stocks, too, deserve loving mention: the lime-and-tomato fusion of the Sopa Maya Lima ($5.50) and the chicken stock in the Sopa Teotihuacana ($6.50, simmered with tomatoes, guajillo chilies, and peppermint, adorned with avocado) are sturdy and sophisticated, miles ahead of the snoozy tortilla soups I've had in South Park.
By the time you read this, the Galerias crew will be getting ready to move a few blocks up Broadway to their new space (formerly the blah 24-hour Minnie's). My waiter gleefully dished about the reasons for the move; but, for the record, the official reason is so that the restaurant will finally be in a larger room and at street level. The new spot has a larger kitchen, too. This can only mean menu changes and perhaps new sauces.
I, for one, cannot wait.
210 Broadway E, 322-5757. Reopening in mid-February at 611 Broadway E.
