By Kate Gaskill, First Year, BA Modern Languages (German and Ab Initio Italian)
It was one of those daunting, umbrella-defying evenings. My friend and I battled our way through the wet, icy wind, all the way up the hill towards Condesa, a Mexican restaurant on Whiteladies Road, hoping it might treat us to some sunshine. We weren’t disappointed. As soon as we walked in, the softly candlelit tables and warm sandstone walls made us feel we’d crossed over from a damp south Bristol Street into a cosy, subterranean pueblo magico.
Passing tables neatly tucked into recesses in the walls, I started making mental notes of the best-looking dishes – a pointless exercise, because everything looked so damned good. We were seated at the bar with a commanding view of the kitchen, the hatch flanked by a backlit arsenal of different mescals and other faintly dangerous type of liquor. Condesa knows it's good at what it does, and makes sure you know it too.
Like the crew of a submarine at action stations, the staff manoeuvred briskly and efficiently from kitchen to table, and although occasionally we had to resort to head-craning and pointed staring, we were generally well looked after. I appreciated the friendly yet firm advice concerning the menu, reassured by the opinion that we had ordered ‘borderline too much’.
A carafe of ice-cold house white got along famously with the first dish out of the gate: quesadillas, handmade in house, with an oozing Bristol queso and jammy pineapple salsa that widened my eyes from its sheer ingenuity as much as chilli kick. I could eat that again and again and – after a short rest – again. Next to arrive in the parade of deliciousness were tacos – the standout dish of the night. The smoked carrot was reduced to its most concentrated flavour, and both were triumphantly adorned with a blistered runny-yolked egg anointed with crunchy sesame chilli oil and chopped parsley. And for nine pounds, to feed two? I’d pay that just to watch them make it.
By now all table decorum had gone out the window: it was a full-on, eat-with-your hands affair. The pork tacos were on the dry side and one-note by comparison, less ‘con todo’ and more ‘con not-quite-enough’. And as much as I enjoyed the meaty slab of the ‘hen of the woods’ mushroom atop a tangle of sauteed wild mushrooms and almond mole, I was left craving a piquancy to cut through all that earthiness. Still, a thoughtful and skilled piece of cooking, and one I defy you to recreate authentically at home.
Despite being ladies of appetite, even we were flagging by the time a hill of hispi cabbage slid onto our section, yet its cascade of juicy raisins and smoked almonds roused us to dig deep, and indeed, in. Charred edges, soft but firm... you’re sick of hispi cabbage by now, I’m sure, but my god, they know how to cook vegetables here. And if that wasn’t enough, the final flourish was tender cuttlefish on black rice, served in a rustic black pan that gave it a crispy sticky bottom – stop sniggering – otherwise known as socarrat, a Spanish word meaning ‘to scorch’. At first the addition of cod roe seemed de trop, but actually balanced the richness of the rice and contrasted with the otherwise neutral flavour of the fish. Clever that.
We were absolutely stuffed, but had we ordered more conservatively we’d surely have been calling out ‘uno mas, por favor!’ Although I still couldn’t refuse dessert, by 10.15pm they’d sold out of most options. No matter: I knew I’d be returning, and all I really needed was a stretcher anyway. By now, the attentiveness of the staff had waned slightly as their thoughts turned, not unreasonably, to home and bed. They’d done well by us and were forgiven.
I implore you to go to Condesa… for your mental health. Not only did I eat like Princess Eréndira of the Purépecha, but we genuinely had fun and felt thoroughly satisfied with everything we ate. The place itself is undeniably cool and sexy, and the dishes aren’t at all pretentious and deliver in spades. Go on a date here, take one friend or three. It’s not a cheap eat, but worthy of a special occasion – go with your parents and don’t show them the prices. I still haven’t tried the masa waffle or the Mezcal margarita, so doubtless I’ll see you there.
Featured Image: Epigram / Annabel Bienfait
