If you want it in a few words, pretentious and hopelessly underpowered. Here's the rest:
The last days of August, 2009 were a sauna in San Juan. How our hearts leaped, then, as our slender hostess led us deep into the air-conditioned depths of one of the toniest, most exquisitely proportioned restaurants we'd ever set foot in. My wife and I had been dining for three days on local cuisine exclusively (truly excellent stuff, by the way), and we were eager to see what an ambitious and obviously high-octane restaurant could do in the quarter mile. Not much, it turns out. In fact, next to nothing.
So you want the good news first? The white bean soup is splendid. It comes in something like an espresso-sized shot cup, served in the middle of the five-course meal. Redolent of bacon and scallion, offering up a bit of truffle oil, it makes for a lovely two swallows. But like two swallows of water in the middle of the Sahara, not enough. I repeat: Welcome enough, but just not enough.
We started with two drinks recommended by our congenial waiter. I'll be candid, I'm not hard to impress with a drink - if a mojito has a nice slash of mint to it, if it refreshes, then I'm all accolades and grace. The problem at Marmalade is that the local mojito mix they'd plucked off the shelf of the little grocery down the street has no kick, no charm, and it didn't help that the eye dropper they used to dispense the alcohol was infant-sized. My wife's drink offered even less. Was less possible? Alas, yes. (The next night, in a little anonymous airport restaurant, for the same nine bucks, I had a fabulous mojito, by the way. It's pretty sad when the most pretentious bistro in town is smoked by a nameless airport watering hole.)
And the meal itself? A concatenation of disappointments. The ceviche starter, highly-touted by another of the reviewers, was drowned in an inordinate marmalade-like topping which quite disguised the small fish chunks simpering on the bottom of the plate. The acidic, tart, distinctive taste of a true ceviche was nowhere in evidence. Likewise, the tuna tartare was served in a glop of sauce that made identification of the tuna a hopeless task. A simple piece of fresh tuna sashimi in any sushi restaurant in any strip mall in any city would leave it in the dust; a true tuna tartare, as served, for example, by Sasabune in Honolulu - an unfair comparison, of course, but the sheer affectation of Marmalade invites it - would leave Marmalade's chef red-faced and gasping . The foie gras, which should have been a highlight, was undercooked, tepid, and, once again, in what would turn out to be the signature flaw of this kitchen, lathered in a fruity concoction, though in this instance the sauce proved a blessing, obscuring, as it did, the less-than-tasty niblets of the signature dish. The gnocchi was also undercooked, and substantially so. A total disappointment to the gnocchi lover, though whatever meat surrounded it had a nice stewy texture and a reasonable taste. Soup came next, and was a pure pleasure. Amuse bouche completely and utterly failed to amuse. The lamb, a very, very small portion, was not offensive. Wife didn't like it, but for me it was an oasis of edibility in a long and gooey stretch of preening and underpowered plates. The monkfish, wherein I hoped lay redemption, was the only bad monkfish I have ever had. Unassertive bits of mysterious protein - wife was not sure it was even fish, but, of course, it was - and sadly unredeemed by the goop surrounding it. Worst part of the meal, hands down? Well, we were obviously tired and disappointed. But we put on our game faces and smiled and let the waiter choose. He brought us "our best deserts." We were then, after a long wait, served a five-layer rice pudding and a strawberry crisp. Friend, what can I say? I promise you that any chain restaurant or local bakery would chuck the chef who dropped such wretched concoctions on a plate. How in the world can you destroy a five-layer rice pudding? This is comfort food; a pure sugar shot; you can't destroy it. Well, not unless you are the desert chef at Marmalade. I left the dish after two spoons. Yes, I left food on the plate. But even my grandmother would have understood.
We went over to Ben & Jerry's afterwards - a rocking little place with more charm in its evanescent and funky furnishings than Marmalade could ever hope to summon - and had three scoops each of superb ice cream. And then we called it a night.
By the way, a little hole in the wall called Jibarito is quite a find, a five minute jaunt down some narrow cobbled side streets right in the heart of the old city. This is what I am talking about when I cite the excellence of the local food. Their boliche serves two purposes, best I can figure: it gives you something cheap and delicious to marvel over. And it gives the chef at Marmalade something to shoot for. read more