after dinner sneeze

t says: We got together at Mixto this past weekend with a fairly large group of friends. They take reservations and have ample space to handle such large groups, so we figured it’d be a safe bet; we were also far closer to Mixto than Cochon, ruling out a trip to my favorite pancakes. We’ve been to Mixto at least once before – if we’ve gone more than once, I’ve forgotten. In any case, I distinctly remember their croissant French toast, which were quite tasty (how can you go wrong if you start off with a croissant? Dunkin’ Donuts and Burger King have been relying on croissants for years), although small in serving size, so I was pumped to try something else.

5/2010, Sunday 12:30pm, Party of ?12?. We arrived and were seated promptly. There was some snafu with the table we were seated at and the number of people we had coming (g and I were last minute add-ons … oops!), so we had to be reseated at a larger table. I appreciate their ability to “roll with the punches” on a fairly busy Sunday. As we sat and got reacquainted with our friends, I perused the menu. Would I go for the pancakes? That’s the natural move, as last time I had the French toast. But, in my head, I doubted whether they’d stack up against Cochon’s, which is a tall order to fill. So, instead of set myself up for disappointment, I went for a g-dish: steak and eggs. Now, Mixto claims that theirs is “Argentinian steak and eggs”, so I was excited to taste something a little different. I ordered and “patiently” (i.e. looked longingly) at servers holding trays, hoping that one would carry my steak and eggs.

When my dish arrived, my nostrils were filled with the beautiful smell of beef and potatoes. It was a manly smell – the kind that puts hair on your chest … well – the kind that smells good and puts hair on your chest. The portion of beef looked substantial (vs. what I had seen a friend recently enjoy at Parc) and the potatoes were golden brown. The two perfectly over-easy eggs stared at me, like a deer in headlights; they knew what was coming … and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

I then sliced into the beef … or at least, I tried. It was a little more resistant to cutting then I had hoped – a combination of the knife’s fault (it was fairly blunt) and the meat being a little over-done; I ordered medium-well, but there was not a trace of pink in sight (as a general rule, I save medium and medium-rare for places that either specialize in steak or have small enough volume to ensure consistency coming out of the kitchen). The beef was seasoned well, but its toughness dampened my spirits. I also didn’t really taste a whole lot of bold flavors or anything to justify the tag “Argentinian” (I actually had no idea what flavors make something Argentinian, so I was looking for anything).

The potatoes, on the other hand, were delicious. They had a little crust but were soft and moist the whole way through, just how I like my morning potatoes. Bravo!

There was also a side salad that was little more special than a side salad. A friend of ours swears by the dressing that accompanies the salad, but compared to great salads like kp’s spinach-and-pancetta salad or g’s super-summer-special salads, it really didn’t stand out. It did however add much needed vegetal zing to an otherwise heavy dish – so I was happy it was there.

g had the huevos rancheros, another classic g-dish. She seemed satisfied with it, but it was a little more deconstructed than she had had the last time she was there, so it didn’t sing quite as harmoniously. That said, she did eat it all, so I’m sure it was fine (I had a taste – it was fine) … just not fine enough for her to rave, “hey – you have got to try this”.

In summary, outside the overcooking of the beef, I don’t have any problems with Mixto. I think that the food is “good”. But I think that in the future, I’ll mostly think of going to Mixto because of their ability to accommodate a group, not because I’m looking for mind-blowing food. But when you have friends, who needs mind-blowing food? Mind-blowing food doesn’t drink a mojito, get an Asian flush, and then state emphatically at the top of its lungs: “most men do NOT do yoga”.