The Boston Phoenix
September 2 - 9, 1999

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Jumbalaya

Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1989

by Stephen Heuser

DINING OUT
Jumbalaya
(617) 354-3600
795 Main Street (Central Square), Cambridge
Open daily, 11 a.m.-11 p.m.
AE, MC, Visa
Full bar
Sidewalk-level access
Smoking at the bar
Walking into Jumbalaya feels uncannily like stepping into the late '80s. The walls are splashed with giant paintings of parrots holding Corona bottles. You get a four-pack of crayons to draw on the butcher-paper tablecloths. There are longneck beer bottles on ice; there is a thatch roof over the bar dripping with Mardi Gras beads; there is willful commingling of Southern and island and Mexican themes. In short, virtually every signifier of the '80s party establishment is there, right down to the gleeful NO FARTING sign blazoned over the men's-room mirror. You expect to come out and see Tom Cruise juggling liquor bottles behind the bar.

Jumbalaya is brand new -- in fact, it's the third restaurant we've reviewed at 795 Main Street in the last few years. The space has been, successively, the second Small Planet and the first K.C.'s Peppercorn Grille. You get the sense that restaurateurs are casting about for the formula that will finally attract pods of MIT students and young Kendall Square techies to this slightly stranded stretch of Main Street, which basically consists of three other restaurants (Chinese, Bertucci's, fancy bistro) and a U-Haul depot. This latest approach, the theme-party bar, has proved wildly successful elsewhere around town -- think of the lines at the Cactus Club and the Border Café -- so heck, maybe it'll work here.

Nationally, the late '80s weren't just the peak of the Corona fad, but the time of a Cajun-cooking mania, fueled by the effusive New Orleans restaurateur and Dom DeLuise impersonator Paul Prudhomme. The name "Jumbalaya" is an off-spelling of jambalaya, the Creole kitchen-sink rice dish, which Jumbalaya does very well. In spite of the name, though, this is not just a Cajun/Creole restaurant: it is also a Mexican restaurant, serving exactly the kind of goopy, cheese-intensive Tex-Mex food that every Mexican restaurant did in the '80s.

It all sounds like a bit much, I know. Jumbalaya feels like a chain-restaurant concept without a chain attached. But the thing is, it's hard to hate the place. Your server starts the meal by writing his name in marker on your tablecloth, and I still can't hate it. The tortilla chips arrive warm, as though freshly baked. The salsa is much better than at your average frat-party bar. They're both free. And the beer is really, really cold, which is pretty much what you want if you're drinking Dixie from a bottle.

I've never lived in New Orleans, or Mexico, so I can't claim any special ability to pronounce this food "authentic" or not. I can only say that the blackened catfish (a dish invented by Paul Prudhomme himself, whose face is on the Cajun seasoning powder set out as a condiment on each table) was surprisingly good, and that the guacamole was surprisingly not good, and that overall the dinners were modestly sized and competent and not terribly expensive.

The menu is split into Cajun/Creole stuff and Mexican stuff. In the appetizer world, "crawfish popcorn" ($6.25) -- that is, battered and fried crayfish meat -- was plentiful, crunchy, and really tasty dipped in sauce. The gumbo ($2.95/cup) was even better. Somewhere between soup and stew, this had a thick base with a complex smoky taste, along with rice, vegetables, flecks of black pepper, and chunks of a meat that I believe was ham. This is not a refined dish, but I bet it'll be awfully good in winter.

On the Mexican side, chili con queso ($5.29) is a refreshingly candid admission that sometimes all you really want in an appetizer is melted Velveeta with some chilies mixed in. The guacamole ($5.39) was unfortunate; there was tons of it, but it was pretty bland and had that slightly fibrous texture that tells you at least one of the avocados involved was past its prime. Another Mexican-ish appetizer was "flaming chorizo" ($5.45), in which chunks of tomato and pepper and chorizo, the spicy Mexican sausage, were extinguished by a blanket of white cheese. It was a bit like a nacho grande plate without the chips underneath: not fancy, but a guilty pleasure.

As for the entrées -- well, it turns out you don't particularly want to go to Jumbalaya for the Mexican food. Chicken enchiladas ($6.95) were just rolled tortillas stuffed with shredded chicken meat; a chicken-and-beef fajita platter ($8.95) was inexpensive and had all the appropriate sizzle, but it was nothing you couldn't turn out at home by slicing some meat and tossing it in a hot pan.

The Creole stuff, on the other hand, isn't the sort of thing you can just whip up at home. And some of it turned out really well. Jumbalaya keeps prices down by keeping portions modest; fish entrées consist of one smallish fillet of fish, one side dish of choice, and a buttermilk biscuit. There are a few corners cut -- I mean, there's no excuse for a miserable pink tomato in mid-August -- but in general the package is attractive and about the right size to finish at one sitting. Everything comes on black glossy plates.

To some extent, the menu's approach is mix 'n' match: you can pick one of about six fish (salmon, snapper, catfish, scrod . . . scrod?), and choose to have it "blackened," "bronzed," or done a couple other ways. You can also pay an extra $1.50 to get some very creamy, rich crawfish étouffée spooned over your meal. Blackening is a process of coating fish with spices, then searing it till it looks burnt but isn't; the blackened catfish ($9.50) turned out attractive and surprisingly moist under the seared spice mix, although it wasn't very peppery. I also ordered a bronzed snapper ($11.99) -- "bronzing" is supposed to be a milder and lighter-colored version of blackening -- and I got something very similar to the blackened treatment. Then again, the order was pretty screwed up -- the fish I got was salmon ($10.99, and I was charged the correct price), not snapper; and the side was jambalaya, not the red beans and rice I'd ordered. So maybe it was blackened fish, and I was looking at someone else's plate entirely.

Considering the name of the restaurant, they don't make a big production of the jambalaya; it's only a side dish. But it's worth a try: though a bit dry, it was a very tasty and eccentric jumble of rice, celery, and diced meat with (like the gumbo) a satisfying smoky flavor.

The most ambitious thing we tried was "catfish in a bag" ($10.95), a fillet of catfish topped with crawfish étouffée and cooked in sealed parchment. The presentation was half the fun: you get your black glossy dinner plate delivered first, and then the server arrives with this seared and blackened bag, opens it, and gently transfers the sauced fish onto your plate. If the fish sticks to the parchment, as it did our night, you get the catfish in pieces; this isn't as pretty, but it doesn't affect the rich, smoky taste.

There are no desserts at Jumbalaya, although Toscanini's ice cream is just down Main Street toward Central Square. Oh, one other thing: if you're not drinking longneck Dixies or Coronas here, you're probably drinking margaritas. And the margaritas are potent. I think that Cruise guy knows what he's doing back there.

Stephen Heuser can be reached at sheuser[a]phx.com.


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