Zarela Takes Root on Second Avenue

          Zarela Martinez is a tough city flower. Toss her out of the greenhouse into the cold and she’ll take root in a crack of the pavement. Equal parts of talent, hunger, and chutzpa fuel this hardy hybrid. And her new Zarela in the creaking, arthritic quarters that last housed Tastings on 2 is a triumph of kitchen alchemy over packaging. But then, fans of her home-style Mexican ranchero cooking would quickly sniff out the scent of her heavenly mole sauce no matter where she blossomed next, even here in digs that fall somewhere between tearoom and pub.

          Early raves and the tattle of frontline foodniks have already crowded the second-story dining room, converted the bar into a noisy canteen, and traumatized the kitchen. But the outsize frozen margaritas ($6) numb the pain of unseemly delays, and it’s easy to fill up on chips with two diabolically feverish sauces.

          True, it does look a bit Laura Ashley, even with Zarela herself, notorious for the bravura of her cleavage, all in black and lariats of rhinestones, tending the flock…even with the costumed duo on guitars. But there wasn’t time — or that much money — to redo the hacienda (still in negotiations even now) once she was abruptly evicted from Café Marimba. She had to move fast “for fear I’d lose the staff,” she explains.

          Bright bands of ribbon, Mexican folk art, her eleven-year-old son Rodrigo’s sculpture, and a vase she covered with colored stones on a quiet night sitting at the bar are just the beginning. But within that odd pastiche, the cuisinary theme is already clear — hearty and sophisticated Mexican home cooking at moderate prices. The same plump chicken-and-fruit-stuffed poblano chile, the same chicken and cheese enchiladas in her powerful Oaxacan mole, the same melt of cheddar — queso fundido — with either homemade chorizo sausage or thick rings of pickled jalapeño or both (of course, both)…all the Marimba familiars.

          It’s easy to make a meal without setting off the burglar alarm on your wallet by choosing from a long list of appetizers, salads, and extras. A toss of hominy, tomato, onion, garlic, and jalapeño is a must, as are spicy mixed greens, “quelites” on the menu, and fried slices of plantain in more of that splendid mole. Corn-and-crab soup is a perfumed porridge. And you might prefer your calamari crisp, sauce on the side, but there’s no complaint about this zesty tomato-onion-olive purée. Her tangy red-snapper hash is justly celebrated, as is torta de arroz — a cakey bread made with rice flour, corn, poblano peppers, and cheese. Ignore the Caesar salad — it’s an impostor.

          Forget that you’re bored with Tex-Mex cliché — or never liked it anyway. Zarela’s ranchero notions go beyond expectation. Do not ask for whom the taco bell tolls. Now and then, a scorch of jalapeño may make a mushroom cloud of your brain, especially in the shrimp dishes where the sea critter itself can be wan and wimpy. But the flavors here weave a complex tapestry — smoke and vinegar, the special sweetness of dried fruit, the cool of jicama, cinnamon, cilantro, the intensity of roasted tomato.

          I cannot imagine there was tuna on the ranch in Chihuahua where Zarela grew up, but she knows the magic of painting it with mole, searing the outside, leaving it sashimi at the core. Her luscious grill-smoked salmon is rare, too, served tepid, with chipotle mayonnaise. Tangy tomatillo livens grilled tilefish. Chewy and flavorful skirt-steak fajitas come with salsa, guacamole, and her tiny silver-dollar flour tortillas (beans and rice are extra).

          Drunken chicken (pollo borracho) with olives, raisins, and almonds, is infinitely superior to the dried-out, spit-roasted Yucatán chicken. And though I normally avoid chicken breast, grilled with a basting of chipotle purée, it is irresistible, moist, faintly charred, touched with orange. Friends rave about her pork baked in milk, a once-a-week special. Liver with bacon and onions might be better rarer (we forgot to ask).

          More than one margarita has a way of disarming all the critical faculties, but I’m sober enough to wonder if it isn’t a bit chintzy to serve entrées in such small oval dishes, minus a vegetable or garnish (who ever heard of fajitas without rice and refried beans?), but perhaps I’m overly cranky—prices are gentle ($8.95–$18.95). Our gang, wanting to taste and share everything, scarcely notices.

          The gift of chocolate came from Mexico, where the priests believed it to be an aphrodisiac (too dangerous for the masses), and Zarela’s followers revere anything she does in chocolate. I love the praline-hazelnut flan and a dense almost pudding-like buttermilk-jam tart, served with pumpkin-seed sauce and vanilla ice cream. The apple pie is very spicy. Almond cajeta torte is sweet, just a cut above birthday cake, but the margarita cheesecake is rich and deliciously citric.

          Does Zarela seem a little tense? This latest somersault — out from under David Keh’s protective umbrella and the stunning Café Marimba (perhaps Sam Lopata’s most beautiful restaurant design eve) to the not-yet-homey Zarela — has been dizzying.

          But Manhattan is her dream. If Paul Prudhomme hadn’t discovered her catering in El Paso, she would have discovered him. She made her New York debut in a flashy Chaîne des Rôtisseurs event at Tavern on the Green, and when Warner LeRoy didn’t invite her back, she invited herself. It was at a private dinner at LeRoy’s home that Craig Claiborne succumbed to her spicy ways. His invitation to cook for President Reagan at the 1983 economic summit in Williamsburg, Virginia, gave her the spotlight that ultimately attracted Keh.

          Forced now to focus on the dining room and details of business, Zarela is not stirring the pots as much as she ought to be. But soon she’ll be back in the kitchen. Aron, the other half of the eleven-year-old twins, who considers Mom’s kitchen his own daycare center, will don his chef’s whites and run underfoot. If all goes well, the tearoom prints will disappear. Guitars will plink and Zarela will persuade you to try her corn-fungus purée layered in crêpes under a cheddar-cheese glaze. Corn fungus? Why not? It’s the truffle of Mexico.

953 Second Avenue, near 51st Street.