Each time I dined at Rosa Mexicano, the vast newcomer that has instantly quickened the pulse of 6th and Hennepin in downtown Minneapolis, I could hear the words of a professor of mine. "Next time, give me less show and more substance," he said. In hindsight, Dr. Smith was mostly wrong -- he gave me a B, after all -- just as I would be mostly wrong if I were to make the same assessment of this fast-growing chain.
It is definitely wrapped up in an eye-grabbing package. Rosa's upscale intentions announce themselves immediately, with stylish and energetic surroundings that not only wipe away all thoughts of Chi-Chi's (a previous tenant) but every standard-issue mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant setting. Enormous windows reveal a long expanse of sidewalk seating. Inside, the main dining room could double as the city's hottest nightclub. It's bathed in flattering pink light and anchored by a soothing cobalt-tiled pool of water that's topped by a mobile of miniature cliff-diving dolls. Yeah, this is how a downtown restaurant should look.
Another extravagant showbiz moment is the tableside guacamole preparation. Not only do staffers demonstrate the most expedient way to gut an avocado, but the process guarantees eyewitness knowledge of the guacamole's freshness. It's delicious, by the way.
When Rosa opened in the early 1980s on Manhattan's Upper East Side, contemporary Mexican was a near-radical dining concept. As the company has grown during the past decade, I can't help but wonder if the kitchen's most distinctive aspects are being smoothed over by the inevitable creep of corporate sameness.
Some dishes can't help but stand out. An enormous pork shank was crispy on the outside, mouth-meltingly tender inside, with each bite exuding a teasing heat. There's an excellent chile relleno, stuffed with more of that delicious slow-cooked pork. Pork belly-scallop tacos, dressed with a cool orange-habanero salsa, were a deluxe surf-and-turf treat.
Rolled chicken tacos, beautifully seasoned, lived up to their claim of crispiness. I loved the roasted bone marrow, its gooey richness liberally spread on garlicky toasts and finished with a nicely matched sweet-hot sauce. A hamachi tuna tartare was gorgeous, its succulent flesh as pink as the room, and its velvety texture accented with cool pops of cucumber and watermelon. Short ribs were a knockout, and red snapper and salmon were both treated memorably. It's not often that fresh huitlacoche -- also known as corn smut -- makes its way onto a Minnesota menu; don't miss it in the melted cheese-mushroom fondue.
The deeply flavorful salsas and molés were nurtured with obvious care. I'd recommend the well-constructed noon-hour sandwiches. But much of the cooking exhibited far less passion: rubbery shrimp, a dull tortilla soup, standard-issue quesadillas, a lifeless chicken tortilla pie. Enchiladas and tacos all begin to blur together, and many dishes tasted as if they had languished under heat lamps.
Is the menu too large? Probably. And maybe too gimmicky. Churros are hustled to the table in a paper bag and are given a theatrical shake in cinnamon and sugar before being carefully emptied onto a plate. It's amusing enough, but the laughs end when a bite into the wonderfully crispy, piping-hot doughnuts reveal raw batter.
