SONORA, HOME OF THE UPSCALE ENCHILADA

The Sonora Cafe, 445 S. Figueroa St. (in the Union Bank Building), Los Angeles. (213) 624-1800. Open Monday-Friday for lunch; Monday-Saturday for dinner. Parking in the building, validated at night. Full bar. All major credit cards. Dinner for 2, food only, $30-$64.

“I don’t think I can eat a caviar tamale,” said the Reluctant Gourmet, looking straight into the soul of what is being called “Southwest cuisine.” These days it’s all the rage (if you doubt this, perhaps you’d like to know that the second annual conference on the subject will be held next month in San Antonio). But like California cuisine, the culinary trend that came before, this new phenomenon has one major drawback; nobody seems to know quite what it is.

Consider the Sonora Cafe. They do not actually serve caviar tamales, but they do serve shrimp tacos, lobster tostadas and goat cheese quesadillas. Looking at this menu, it is easy to assume that this collection of upscale enchiladas is merely Tex-Mex with a college education.

Fortunately, the menu seeks to enlighten us. “The Cuisine of the American Southwest,” it says, “has always been one rich in tradition and warmth and filled with familiar and satisfying flavors. It has been a true melting pot for the Mexican, Spanish and Indian Cultures.”

Fair enough. But there’s more: “We are excited to bring our guests a contemporary styling of Southwest cooking through a combination of traditional techniques, regional ingredients and a desire for creativity.”

Think about that. What does it mean? Tradition and creativity are playing ball here, and when it comes to regional ingredients--when was the last time crab or swordfish or shiitake mushrooms were found in the wilds of the Southwest? Nor are lobster, salmon, foie gras or basil--all found on the Sonora menu--exactly native to that region.

This is not to say that the food’s not good; for the most part what is served in this stylishly decorated restaurant is very good. But the irony (given that the restaurant is owned by El Cholo), is that the best dishes on the menu are the ones that owe almost nothing to our friends around the southern border.

“Here are your carnishes,” said the waiter brightly one day, putting down my plate. These were not, in fact, some Jewish version of Mexican food, but the world’s driest carnitas, heavily seasoned with cinnamon. Sonora also serves what may be the worst fajitas in town, (the meat is virtually tasteless and the beans come out on the griddle, sizzling with the meat, so that by the time you get around to eating them they’re burnt).

The taco assortment is uninspired, the red chili sauce on the duck tamale has all the excitement of canned spaghetti sauce, and a very good black bean and vegetable filling is subdued by one of those giant fried tostada baskets that frequently come flying out of Mexican-American restaurants.

“Looking at this fish,” said the Reluctant Gourmet as his tequila-marinated salmon was put before him, “I’d swear it was French. Do you think they baptized it with tequila to convert it to Southwestern?” He took a bite and then added, “Tastes pretty French, too.”

Served on a bed of spinach and covered with beurre blanc, the dish is as delightful as it is French. Grilled turkey breast in pomegranate and juniper berry sauce, on the other hand, is pure Americana: inventive, original and absolutely delicious. It is served with sweet potatoes and a bouquet of beautifully cooked vegetables; our national bird has never tasted better. A special of grilled chicken with roasted garlic, tomatillo and shiitake mushrooms is pure joy to eat. And while I can’t see any reason to put a Southwestern label on a dish of grilled veal with mango and basil, the fat chop certainly looks beautiful against those bright puddles of green and yellow.

Clearly someone in that open kitchen has been spending time around French food. It turns out, in fact, that chef Corey Robbins came from the Seventh Street Bistro and has never even been to the Southwest.

He did a lot of reading, and then he conjured up wild and fanciful dishes--like crab and wild mushroom enchiladas in chipotle cream sauce--that turn out to be brilliant flavor combinations. The smokiness of the chiles brings forth the taste of each of the ingredients, while its own edges are softened by the cream of the sauce. I think this is the best thing on the menu.

The little blue corn-bread madeleines, which are rich and crunchy and positively addictive, are also an imaginative and very good idea. I also like Robbins’ version of chilaquiles, which are in this incarnation rather like Mexican lasagne. They are inexplicably listed as a side dish, and at $2 a large serving, they are the bargain of the menu.

And this is a menu noticeably lacking in bargains. Prices, which are almost the same at lunch and dinner, tend to be on the high side. Lunch becomes even more expensive when you add the price of parking. The restaurant validates after 5:30, but in the daytime it is not hard to spend more on parking than the average person spends on lunch. I was shocked one day when the attendant announced that I owed him $13.50. To be fair, few of the people lounging at lunch seem very concerned about their ability to ransom their cars.

This is a stylish crowd; looking around the room it is easy to imagine yourself right into one of William Hamilton’s New Yorker cartoons. In this beautifully decorated, but somehow soulless room, people lean earnestly towards each other.

“What do you think they’re all whispering about?” I asked the RG. He studied the couple at the next table and said, “I’ll bet they are discussing either the stock market or their analysts.” We strained to eavesdrop on their conversation. (This is not easy; the place is loud.) He was wrong. They were having a very lively discussion about two things. Whether or not there was pineapple juice in the Margaritas (I suspect there is)--and where you can get caviar tamales.