Chowder Head

Full of beans.

by Robrt L. Pela

I don’t eat corn chowder. I’ve watched friends order it in restaurants and always wondered why, in a world filled with lobster bisque and tomato leek soup, would anyone order what looks like a bowl of dirty dishwater?

But the other night, at Los Sombreros in south Scottsdale, my dinner companion requested and had delivered to our table a steaming hot bowl of the creamiest, most gorgeous corn chowder I’d ever 
beheld. I pointed to it and told our surly waiter, “Bring me one of those.”

He did—with barely a scowl!—and eating it changed my entire attitude about corn chowder. Slightly spicy, its velvety base was studded with crunchy corn, chunks of potato, and a hint of green chile. I made this delicious starter half of a complete meal—I  ordered sides of black beans and steamed vegetables, both nice alternatives to the usual refrieds and rice, especially for those of us trying to eat light—and ordered a bowl of guacamole for the table. While we waited for it to arrive, we nibbled the unspectacular yet crispy corn chips, which needed salt. Alas, there was no salt on our table, so we dipped our chips (and the weird, wagon-wheel-shaped corn thingies tossed in among them) into the delicious, dime-sized servings of salsa our server had left behind.

The guacamole arrived, and was perfectly seasoned—tart with lemon juice and cilantro, and crunchy with green onions—and served mounded onto a pile of crisp shredded cabbage and radish slices in a black faux stone bowl that I wanted very much to kipe. While I was trying to figure out how to smuggle it out under my shirt, my side dishes arrived, and I forgot all about stealing things.

Those black beans were amazing. Suddenly, I found myself feeling sorry for every bowl of beans that had ever been mashed and refried; served in a monkey bowl, these were firm and fresh and redolent of garlic and still more cilantro. The vegetables were dreary; sautéed in what tasted like vegetable oil and little else. I pushed them aside and contented myself tasting the entrees of everyone else at our table.

The Mole Poblano was perfect—neither too spicy nor too bland; swaddling shredded chicken that managed to be both crispy and tender. I liked it better than the also tasty Lamb Adobo, a braised shank served in an ancho chile sauce that was sweeter than it was spicy.

Los Sombreros has an outdoor bar, which is absolutely ridiculous in the summertime, but there was one poor slob sitting out there throwing back margaritas on the blistering early evening I dined there, so what do I know? One leaves this sweltering patio and enters the dining room through the kitchen (why do restaurants consider this clever?) and finds, once inside, an authentic Mexican menu that allows one to eat light. Don’t skip the beans.