Suzana: I had my doubts when you moved Cafe Poca Cosa from its claustrophobic, funky, folk-art draped Hotel Santa Rita environs to your nouveau metro chic space a block away. But there was the comfortable, familiar chalkboard with the evening's menu, an intriguing long bar and white banquette curving seductively through the center of a room backed with a sultry red-orange wall, salsa kissed with just enough cilantro to perk my interest, a cold beer in my hand, Aaron's (the waiter) deep gravelly voice and flawless diction pouring the promise of pure bliss into my ears.
There you were, working the room in your jeans and white apron as plates bearing the happy weight of your stupendous sauces trundled out of the kitchen, looking amazing.
It's enough to give a girl the vapors.
And it's reassurance that the kitchen's soul is firmly grounded, no matter the setting, in the earthy and sensual. I would drown in your pollo con mole negro on at least a weekly basis, but finances dictate that such culinary consummation remain largely the stuff of fantasy. I swoon.
Faithfully,
Boltgirl
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