Like all trendy, in-your-face Boston hot spots, Toro, a Barcelona-style tapas restaurant in Boston’s South End, doesn’t take reservations. Great, I thought to myself. “The wait’ll be about three hours,” yells the short, bubbly hostess over the buzz of a full house. “But you’re more than welcome to get a drink at the bar in the meantime!”
An invisible garlic fog permeates the restaurant’s dimly lit interior—imagine the lighting of a movie theater when the previews begin—and the bar area is brimming with patrons packed in like cattle, wriggling their way from one social circle to the next. Organized chaos.
Fortunately for those of us who can’t make a drink last longer than 20 minutes (much less three hours), it’s October, and there are two open tables on the front patio. It takes a brave soul to eat a meal in 40-degree weather, but it takes an even braver soul to stand for three hours in what feels like a railroad stock car clutching a $6 bottle of Sam Adams Light. Sometimes you must choose between the lesser of two evils.
What the nighttime ambience lacks in refinement—and, hey, it is a tapas bar after all—the diverse dinner menu more than makes up for with delicacy and balance. “You could close your eyes and point anywhere on the menu, and it’d be a good choice,” the waitress says when asked for suggestions.
And she’s mostly right. Toro’s array of funky dishes is a lively jungle of culinary symbiosis.
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Take the queso de cabra, for example. Eaten alone, the individual elements—a somewhat chalky, rather bland goat cheese with a salty, stinky brine and a Concord grape compote that tastes like, to be frank, a purple Jolly Rancher—don’t wow. But together, they shine: The saltiness of the thick brine cuts into the compote’s overbearing candy flavor, the grape’s residual sweetness coaxes to the roof of the mouth the cheese’s delightful Gorgonzola-esque rot, and a crumbly pistachio garnish adds a much-needed layer of textural crunch. A truly synergistic dish.
On nights like these, through no fault of Toro’s, the foie gras falls flat. A frosty chill quickly saps away heat from the gently seared patty, so the inner plump is more gelatinous than melty—so much so that the more squeamish among us gag on the texture upon first bite.
Still, it’s foie gras, and a lightly pickled peach, kissed by the perfect peck of vinegar, provides the fatty liver a much-needed counter-flavor. And once the bite dissolves into its liquid bacon goodness, you are reminded why there’s no such thing as bad foie gras. Cold aside, the juice is definitely worth the squeeze.
Owner and head chef Ken Oringer’s showstopper is, without a doubt, the maiz asado con alioli y queso Cotija. If you’re on a first date, it might be wise to save it for another night. “It’s gonna be a little messy,” the waitress says. “You’re gonna get your fingers dirty.” But if you’re out with some friends, a longtime partner, or spouse, it’s goddamn criminal not to order the dish.
First, the cob corn is grilled over an open flame. This is vital. The char gives the entire plate a smoky backbone that tickles the olfactory system with every bite—it’s like you’re chowing down beside a bonfire in the woods. A garlicky, mayonnaisey alioli blanket smothers the corn, and shreds of Cotija cheese, a tart, granular dairy much like feta, and the right amount of freshly cracked pepper speckle the corn’s creamy coat like stars in the Basque Country sky. It’s a flawless polygamy of smoke, sour, spice, and sweetness.
As an icy bluster eats its way down Washington St., the waitress brings out a miniature clay kettle of Toro’s house tea. The ceramic mug, warmed by the hot herbal solution it cradles, is almost more useful on nights like these as a handwarmer than as a beverage container. But one sip of the bitter Spanish black sends a shot of warmth coursing through your veins and transports you to Catalonia Square from the patio at Toro, Boston’s own little slice of Barcelona.
Featured Image Courtesy of Toro
