To fully embrace the voices that guide Pedro Wolcott's cooking, consider the jerk chicken from his restaurant, Guacaya Bistreaux.
It arrives already sectioned, dark with grill marks and painted with a glaze made with a different type of ketchup (Panamanian) that tangentially recalls jerk seasoning (Jamaican): the heat is tempered, and it's slightly — though not unappealingly — sweeter. The chicken is sandwiched between a guandú-style risotto (Panamanian), creamy from the coconut milk in which it's simmered, and blanketed with braised kale and bacon (New Orleanian).
Wolcott's heritage may explain the culinary trifecta and his abilities to make dishes, like this chicken, work. Though he's from Panama, Wolcott shuttled between there and Louisiana, borrowing influences specific to his mother and grandmother, the cuisines of Afro-Antillean and Latin-Caribbean. Eventually he made his way to New Orleans, cooking at the luminaries — Commander's Palace and Emeril Lagasse's NOLA Restaurant.
It may also explain why Guacaya is named the way it is. "Guacaya" is shorthand for Cerro Guacamaya, the majestic mountain near where Wolcott grew up, "Bistreaux" for the Louisianian influence, a French-ish play on the word bistro.
At Guacaya, which Wolcott opened in August, along with his business partner, Giancarlo Quintero, he adjusts for the Midwest and, more specifically, the North Loop. This means you might walk past a Smack Shack, Bonobos and the Déjà Vu gentlemen's club before arriving at the glass-walled restaurant, situated at the foot of an industrial-looking apartment building. Outside, there's a large patio that seats up to 50; inside, the Caribbean leaf wallpaper is juxtaposed against the kind of table lamps you'd see at a New Orleans jazz bar; above you, there's a light fixture embraced by a tropical basket weave. The colorful tapestry-like paintings are done by his cousin, Alfonso. Yes, the chicken is tempered, and the spiciest thing on the menu is probably the aji amarillo, which recalls spicy mayo. This, like a few other things on the menu, will make you wince, though not uncomfortably. Guacaya gently pushes its residents toward an underrepresented cuisine — Latin-Caribbean — without being standoffish about it.
So consider, too, the Mofongo. The traditional Puerto Rican dish is made with fried green plantains, mashed with garlic and mixed pork cracklings, with a starchy, chewy texture not unlike Thanksgiving stuffing served in the form (and size) of a miniature upside-down cake and adorned with gently charred okra and broccoli. I don't know why this dish only intermittently appears on the menu. It's terrific.
On the more Louisianian side of Wolcott's repertoire, you may consider the Cajun firecracker egg rolls, which taste more appealing than their Benihana-esque moniker. A thick armor is just brittle enough to shatter, a flavorful filling is bound by boudin sausage and pepper jelly gastrique is just acidic enough to temper.
These are the winners, intersecting the best of Guacaya's origins. But there are examples where the voices muddle. The market fish in a ceviche was red snapper, but it could have been a less prized fish, like tilapia, as it likely had steeped in its marinade too long when it arrived at our table tasting like 7-Up. A sweet potato mousse sweetens it even more (better would be raw sweet potato, Peruvian-style). On our visit, the promised avocado mousse was missing, and so was the canchita, a type of popcorn, which was supposed to provide a textural counterpoint.
