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
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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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