By Doug Fairall
By David Minsky
By Sara Ventiera
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By David Minsky
By Sara Ventiera
By Laine Doss
Bid farewell to American fusion cuisine, that tired trend, as you know it. Say hello to Latin fusion cuisine because, well, you're going to get to know it.
The place where you'll begin to get acquainted, folks, is the Samba Room on East Las Olas Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale. The third location of a burgeoning chain owned by Carlson Restaurants Worldwide, which also runs the Samba's sister organization T.G.I. Friday's, this five-week-old eatery is already proving that pan-Latin fare may be more tempting than pan-American. Check it out: On a recent Saturday night, the new restaurant was boasting an hour's wait, while Dancing Bear across the street, where acclaimed New American chef David Sloane does his intriguing comfort-food stuff, was handling the overflow.
Hmm. It's possible that foot traffic is being magnetized by the couches, armchairs, and coffee tables on Samba's sidewalk, where revelers lounge with mojitos -- Cuban rum cocktails -- in their hands. More likely, however, the booming business at Samba Room has resulted from Carlson's market research. The company opened the first and second eateries in Dallas and Chicago respectively; both cities have large Latino communities. South Florida was a natural third, not to mention fourth and fifth. The restaurant's next location will be in South Beach, and Samba number five is planned for West Palm Beach. Soon everyone in the tricounty area can have a little plantain in his life, a little bit of pollo by his side .
350 E. Las Olas Blvd.
Fort Lauderdale, FL 33301
Region: Fort Lauderdale
That is, of course, if Samba gets its conga line together. Given its parentage I wouldn't have expected the restaurant to be so disorganized that it didn't hire enough staff to deal with a Saturday-night crowd. On a recent weekend evening, we decided to give up trying for a place in the dining room, despite the appeal of flowing white linen draperies, a slate floor, and an array of woods so beautifully hued that L'Oréal could model a hair-product line after them. The wait for the 200-seat restaurant had jumped to two hours. We were seated at an outdoor bar table only moments before the hosts were instructed to stop taking names altogether, because the kitchen was so backed up that the cooks (what few there were, our waitress confided) couldn't handle the food orders.
It was pretty apparent from the get-go that chaos was reigning. Here's a time line to illustrate: Two out of four of our appetizers were brought to our table; 15 minutes later, the entire order of four appetizers was served; 15 minutes after that, the two missing appetizers from the first attempt arrived. We saw one particular starter -- deep-fried calamari -- a total of three times, since someone else's order of squid was literally mixed up with a side dish of onion rings our table ordered later in the meal. With each delivery we would request plates so we could share the food, and after hurried promises the server would scuttle off and fail to return. Fortunately a wait station was situated right next to us, so we helped ourselves to a variety of things, from silverware to extra napkins. The only item we couldn't serve ourselves was water, which appeared toward the end of the meal after several increasingly urgent requests.
In short the place was a disaster. But to give credit, our waitress was so cool-headed and collected that overall, despite the numerous glitches, our meal was actually enjoyable. And the Latin fusion fare, chock full of nuances, showed considerable inspiration. For instance the arepas starter -- griddled corn cakes sandwiched with queso blanco and tender shredded beef -- was highlighted with an unexpected corn salsa. The corn had been cut straight from the cob, and the salsa itself is prepared daily rather than stored overnight in the fridge, which would leach the corn of its sweetness. Bravo -- this was fresh and delicious.
Although the dishes are pan-Latin, an occasional Asian twist appears. For example the seared rare tuna appetizer had been coated in sesame seeds, and not even the presence of black-bean purée topped with juicy hunks of papaya could persuade my taste buds that it was Latin. It wasn't so difficult to win me over in terms of its merit. The tuna was meaty and butter-soft, ruby red to the papaya's brilliant orange -- a veritable rainbow of flavors.
On the other hand, the point of Latin origin for most of the dishes is easily discernable. Clearly the "grilled Chilean sea bass" main course stemmed from -- you got it -- Chile. The fish was inches thick and fell apart in wide flakes at the touch of a fork, though it was so bland that not even a tomato mojo could redeem it. The roast-chicken entrée, rubbed with recado, a mixed-spice paste of Yucatecan descent, had a fabulous backyard-grill flair. Moist and slick with juice, the half chicken had been spiced with annatto and fired until the skin was crisp. A massive side dish of mashed boniatos, or white sweet potatoes, had been spiked with rum and vanilla and was a terrific variation on the typical starch. And the ropa vieja sandwich, a crunchy Cuban bread spread with stewed shredded beef, was obviously from Gloria Estefan's homeland, and the flavor was enough to make us want to "do that conga." Our only objection to this version of a sloppy joe was that it wasn't quite sloppy enough.