A friend of a friend once asked me where I lived, and I told her Redondo Beach. "Oh," she said. An indifferent shrug rolled off her shoulders and traveled upward, flowing through her face, ending in a wrinkled, upturned nose. She adjusted the top two layers of her intentionally-oversized boyfriend-cardigan over her intentionally-ill-fitting boyfriend button down over as they fell off her shoulders yet again. "I don't even know where anything IS outside of LA."
I think that girl lives at Baco Mercat. Or in one of the many well-known, high-end renters of this remarkable complex. The affordable valet combats the scarcity of street parking, the exposed pipes justify the role of ill-fitting hipster clothes in fine dining, and the creative list of cocktails is all sorts of wet n' wild. The soul of LA shines through every orifice, ritzy masquerading as shabby-chic, ego and attitude with not enough cred to back it up.
To be fair, Baco Mercat doesn't just please LA snobs like my new fre-nemy described above. The ingredients are quality, and the place holds some charm despite the clientele. Or maybe that's just the cocktails talking.
We are off to a good start, however, with Octopus & Crispy Pork Belly. The combination is unexpected, but the octopus is perfect, the pork belly is crispy fat juice, and I love every separate bite with sweet pear and a cool vinaigrette. A somewhat dissonant combination at a smaller portion, but not unappreciated, and quality trumps quantity any day.
The Caramelized Cauliflower is not so good. There is a LOT of acid, and it turns the whole dish sour. The cauliflower itself lacks the softer texture expected with caramelization, and acid aside, it has no other detectable flavors.
Lesson learned: stick to the namesake dish. The Toron sounds like just a glorified sandwich wrapped in flatbread, but it's so much more than that. The baco bulges with mollescent oxtail, savory and slick. Soft, melty cheese with a twang of horseradish yogurt rounds out all the flavors for a flatbread full of fabulous.
I was really excited about the Lamb Riblets. It sounded creative, and I haven't seen anything similar anywhere else. That might be because it's a dish that just shouldn't be served. At a whopping price of $25, the "jerk" sauce was a punch to the palate. Inedibly salty and strangely bitter, all lamb lost under a muddy swamp. It felt like a jerk was stomping across my taste buds in steel-toe boots, and my eyes actually watered with the first bite.
The food is 50-50, but the service is 100% infallible. We sent the riblets back and were met with a genuine apology. We were offered a do-over in the form of a re-attempt or a whole new dish, both of which we declined. Still, it was really nice of them to ask.
We skipped to the Harry's Berries Crostada dessert, no longer willing to flip a coin with small plates and sides. The crust is buttery, flaky and dense, among the best I've ever had. The ripe berries are farmer's-market fresh, and their tartness tangoes with a creamy vanilla gelat.
Baco had potential, but I remain displeased. It's clear that someone there can cook, but they cook neither consistently nor impressively enough to atone for the fatal flaws. I may be just a girl from NOT LA, but at least I know when LA isn't worth visiting.
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