Have you ever received a rave recommendation for a restaurant from a friend you would trust with your babies, and you go, only to be direly disappointed by lackluster fare? I've certainly been on both ends of the equation. I sent a friend to my favorite taco joint Tacos Matamoros once, with the promise that the tacos were almost as good as ones we had sampled outside a bullfight ring in Mexico City. Perhaps in my enthusiasm, I made a wishful overstatement, because he seemed rather underwhelmed (and those organ meat/chicharrones/sausage filled bullfighter tacos were incredible.) Still, we remain very good friends, and I should hope it hasn't lowered his estimation of me.
So why did I have reservations about posting a review for El Huipil? My good friend Allen took Julie, Adam and me deep into Red Hook last Saturday night, where he promised we would get great posole, quality rice and beans and chicken mole before we hit up a birthday party in the area. After dinner, I decided I couldn't blog about it. I kept my mouth shut for a week, not wanting to insult Allen or Allen's friend who is apparently an owner, or related to the owner, or something. But in the end, I felt a duty to report, as much for myself as for you, dear readers -- and I hope Allen can forgive me.
The four of us took a car service from north Slope to Red Hook with a crazy Arecibo lady driver who swerved around every pot hole on every crappy warehouse-lined street like a complete maniac. It was my first visit to Red Hook, and probably my last until they get some good public transportation going that way. I'm sure all the Red Hookers are happy to keep the foreigners off their turf; I am just as glad to save money on car services.
Red Hook is kind of the final frontier of Brooklyn. I hear about it all the time, and I figured it would be like Greenpoint five years ago. It's not even like Greenpoint. There are abandoned warehouses, limping dogs behind chain-link fences, stray cats strutting along the sparse strip of storefronts on Van Brunt St. This house was not a home.
After we got out of the car, we walked down a ghost street to El Huipil Restaurant, the one place on the whole block emanating light. It was cute in a turista fetish way, a small bi-level room with turmeric painted walls, skull bedecked paintings and very fresh looking Mexican paper flags strung up on the ceiling. The speakers were playing Cuban music softly, which is very different from my beloved Tacos Matamoros where the jukebox blasts Latino radio hits and horn heavy Mexican tunes. The menu looked great with lots of yummy looking breakfast dishes, and we set to ordering share plates and individual plates.
Our posole was large enough to share between four people, garnished with a crisp tostada, a couple of fried pork skins, lime, and bitty ramekins of chopped onion and minced jalapeno. It was mild without too much richness, and definitely could have benefited from some salt; but I appreciated all of the condiments as I am a condiment girl. We also had the nopales tostadas which were okay -- the tortillas were fried to a deep golden brown ahead of time, and were topped with chopped romaine, tomato, nopales that could have been canned, some grated cotija cheese, some pickled jalapeno slices and a couple of squirts of crema. Nice and green, but certainly nothing to write home about. We also got rajas tamales, which were filled with the strips of hot peppers and chicken but also with some gooey cheese, which is not something that I am used to in a tamale and, I discovered, not something I really like. Again, I would say that it was fine, but not better than my $1 tamale lady in Sunset Park (and definitely not a better deal).
But I reserved judgment for the main dishes, which came after a puzzling wait, especially considering that, aside from one couple, we were the only people in the place. Allen got chicken enchiladas with mole sauce, and Adam got the chicken mole plate. The mole was great -- black Oaxacan style, more bitter and much more spicy than most I've had, with a nice texture and a deep, dark color. Unfortunately, I chose poorly with my chileajo with puerco -- the brick red ground chile sauce tasted tired and dusty, and the few hunks of pork were somewhat tough. Julie's green pipian mole, made with ground pumpkin seeds, was bland and somewhat watery, lacking the ooze texture of the other moles. Our rice and beans were nothing special -- I'm sure you could get the same rice at any corner Dominican steam table takeout; and the beans texture and taste suggested to me that they came from a can.
For me, the most disappointing thing was that I had taken a bus to Park Slope and we took a car to Red Hook to get food that was not close to being as good as the stuff I can get within spitting distance of my house. When we tried to go to Baked around the corner at about 9 p.m. on a Saturday night, it had already closed. To you first responders carving the way for the next real estate boom in Red Hook, I say more power to you -- it's all yours.
Grade: B flat minor, as my friend likes to say
Total: $22 per person with tax and tip for 1 entree each and 3 apps between 4 people.
Will I return? No. I don't have any compelling reason to go back to Red Hook either.
El Huipil
116A Sullivan St. (between Van Brunt and Conover streets in Red Hook)
I don't know how you get there. Buses? Car service? It's hard to get to.
