Just as New Yorkers like to complain that it’s impossible to get a good bagel outside the five boroughs, Texans enjoy lamenting the lack of decent Tex-Mex outside the Lone Star State. It seems especially egregious in a city so full of both places to eat and displaced Texans. So word spread quickly about Javelina, a restaurant near Union Square claiming to offer “true Tex-Mex,” as advertised by a green neon sign that casts an eerie glow over a row of tall cacti just inside the door. Within days of opening, reservations were already hard to come by, with wait times creeping up to two hours.
The people wanted their enchiladas and their fajitas, but, more than anything, they wanted their queso. Queso is the generic Spanish word for “cheese,” but Texan queso, also known as chile con queso, is a very specific dish, taken very seriously, and, naturally, a source of great debate, down to pronunciation: “keh-so” not “kay-so,” according to Texas Monthly. Opinions and recipes vary, but it seems generally agreed upon that the cheese should be mild and melted to a Velveeta-like consistency, mixed with chiles, then scooped up with tortilla chips—preferably of the sturdy, crunchy, salt-flecked, golden variety, like the ones that come in a basket, still hot from the fryer, at Javelina. These are complimentary, along with a sweet, smoky salsa; the queso is compulsory, but must be ordered separately. There are two kinds: yellow and white, the former slightly runnier, with a distinct subtle tang and chopped tomatillo and serrano, the latter a bit more creamy, offset by jalapeño and roasted poblano. Both get a dollop of pico de gallo, can be further jazzed up with a variety of toppings—guacamole, chorizo, ground beef—and wash down well with an avocado-cilantro margarita or a Smoky Negroni, made with habanero bitters and mezcal instead of gin.
It’s hard to imagine eating anything else after all that melted cheese, especially because it’s hard not to eat all of that melted cheese. In its early days, the kitchen at Javelina seemed like it was still getting its footing beyond the queso. The avocado in the avocado tacos turned out to be fried in a flavor-diminishing floury coating. The chicken-fried steak lost any crispness it once had under the weight of a creamy gravy. The parrillada mixta, or mixed grill, on the other hand, was a sight to behold: a cast-iron contraption piled with fajita-style sliced chicken and steak, shreds of carnitas, peppery jalapeño sausage, bacon-wrapped shrimp, and plump drumsticks of barbecued quail, sticky with a honey glaze. With an assortment of accoutrements, including a stack of tortillas and a softball-size scoop of sour cream, it could happily feed a family of six. “Serves 1-2,” says the menu. Texas portions. ♦
Open daily for dinner. Entrées $17-$38.
