Any good debater will tell you that the most thrilling episodes in any match are when each side cohesively builds on another. It may not immediately seem like it at Chelas, which opened in Minneapolis' Tangletown neighborhood in December, but the prospect of marrying Latin American and Vietnamese cuisine by way of tapas can evoke these moments.
One dish on Chelas' menu, called Bo Kho Menudo, certainly does. The sum here is greater than their parts: Bo Kho, the incandescent Vietnamese beef stew, and Menudo, a traditional Mexican chile-based broth made from tripe. It's much more than the proteins (tender), the starch (hominy, snappy; crostini, crisp), and their accoutrements (carrots). The five-spice, endemic to Bo Kho, tames the tripe to softer embrace; the beans absorb the broth well, and that broth, well, is as nuanced as it can be.
Moments like these make you wonder why fusion gets a bad rap. It shouldn't. Not when the kitchen is manned by Luom Bronko Do and Timmy Truong, chefs who dabbled cross-culturally with ventures such as the former Fusion Eatery (in downtown St. Paul) and Soul Fu (in Minneapolis' North Loop Galley). The way their talents converge like a Vulcan mind meld may explain how they've been able to come up with dishes like Bo Kho Menudo.
But I'm of two minds about several of the other dishes across the menu. A side of bok choy isn't more inspired than the fact that it's grilled, then slicked with oyster sauce and fried shallots. And a cucumber salad needed more time in its marinade, relying instead on a chile crisp that underdelivers on heat. Both dishes don't make me think outside the Southeast Asian box.
Nor does the nuoc mam that accompanies most dishes. It does little to enliven flavorful scallops in their shells, and a charred-enough but rubbery squid. The tacos are more expressive in their crossover, but they don't hold their own.
Those dishes may represent a brand of fusion that stops short of the finish line. It can go astray, too. Are uni and caviar (roe) the right vehicles for bone marrow? They can be, with the right amount. But these lavish ingredients do little more than feed an Instagram post.
I attribute the identity crisis to a restaurant still in flux. The banner-style signage outside suggests you're entering a pop-up; the more lived-in signage inside, Prieto, is a reminder that the space it once housed is still in there, somewhere, until Do and Truong fully take over the restaurant. Across the restaurant are design cues that speak both languages — inverted wicker-basket lamps, reminiscent of Southeast Asia, and a neon "Taqueria" sign that glows above the kitchen pass.
But that doesn't explain why several dishes, the appetizers especially, are too sweet. An otherwise tender beef salad is marinated simply in lime juice, our server tells us, but it tasted like soda. Wings had the right shatter but leaned more sweet than sour.
