There used to be dozens of Spanish restaurants around Chelsea and the village, and while it was possible to argue over which had the best paella, there was no serious debate about which was the best. It was El Quixote, at the Hotel Chelsea.
When El Quijote opened in 1930, the Depression had set in, but the nightclub era was still going on. An awning, stretching from the curb on West 23rd Street to the red neon sign above the door, protected felt hats and fur coats from the elements. Inside, captains dressed in scarlet blazers and runners wore black vests over white shirts. Murals and framed paintings inspired by Don Quixote, bullfights or any other idea of ancient Spain looked down on everyone.
As the years took their toll, El Quijote’s original glamor had to do with dropped ceilings, planed checkerboard linoleum, and dusty sculptures. The paella may have the consistency of yesterday’s oatmeal. The taste of the sangria, served by the pitcher under an inch of fruit salad, can best be described as purple. But faded glory is still splendor. Not a fan of kitsch, critic Craig Claiborne admitted in a 1967 Times capsule review that El Quijote had “a certain tawdry appeal.” No doubt some of its insipidity was carried in the wake of the hotel’s guests and residents, who were able to enter through a door in the lobby.
Patti Smith, who lived upstairs, wrote in her memoir “Just Kids” that one afternoon in 1969 she walked into the bar of El Quijote and “found musicians everywhere, sitting in front of tables covered with piles of shrimp with green sauce, paella, pitchers sangria and bottles of tequila.” Jefferson Airplane was there, so was Janis Joplin and her band, Jimi Hendrix sitting by the door.
That particular scene, caused by Woodstock, was never repeated. However, El Quijote continued to attract musicians, artists, writers and others who appreciated the combination of surrealism, tradition and prices that hardly changed from decade to decade. El Quijote could almost always turn an evening into an event, a rarity in a restaurant whose playlist consisted of elevator music arrangements of songs by the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. It was a dreamy ghost ship that came to rest in the churning currents of Manhattan.
Such places cannot be replaced, and when El Quijote was closed for renovation by the hotel’s owners four years ago, the city’s antiquarian-bohemian axis feared it would be destroyed or at least cleared beyond recognition. Now that the restaurant has been around for two months, most worries can be forgotten.
The greatest loss is the disappearance of the rooms at the back of Dulcinea and Cervantes. Those spaces weren’t as dreamy as the front room and bar, but they accounted for nearly half the seating and made it easier to spontaneously walk in or host a last-minute birthday party. A new private dining room will not serve the same purposes. The tighter spaces become an issue when it comes time to book and the only slots available are 5pm or 10pm
However, the space that remains has been treated with all the sensibility any urban nostalgic could demand. The wall-to-wall mural of the windmill, painted in calligraphic white stripes on a dark caramel background, looks like a museum piece after cleaning. The linoleum was lifted to reveal small ceramic floor tiles that are likely original. The white tablecloths are gone and servers now wear soft cotton jackets instead of blazers, but the color is still as red as a bullfighter’s cape.
The old recipes have been retired, as they should have been. Jaime Young, founder of the Sunday Hospitality restaurant group and its culinary director, oversees the menu with chef de cuisine Byron Hogan, whose resume includes three years as head chef at the US Embassy in Madrid. Together they have completely refreshed the connection of the kitchen with contemporary Spanish cuisine.
Paella used to be steamed in deep aluminum pots; now the rice is stirred into real paellas, shallow and as wide as a hubcap, for a more intense flavor and a much higher crunch factor. Saffron is now used, a welcome change from the annatto that used to color the rice without adding much flavor. The current version is studded with all i oli, the garlic-olive oil emulsion, and studded with both shellfish and rabbit, a meat much loved by Valencian paella eaters.
Lobster, cooked on a plancha and dripping with smoky allspice butter and sherry, is a far cry from the garlic-scented chew toys of the past. Arbequina olive oil, distinctly fruity and flavoursome, softens the garlic bite in the prawns al ajillo, roasted in their pink shells. Tuna is braised with Espelette pepper in warm olive oil until it has the tenderness and richness of braised beef cheeks.
The chefs give simple tapas and pintxos extra layers of flavour. Usually this is an advantage. Making a candied tomato for pan spreading is a smart approach to out of season produce. Marinating a blend of Spanish olives with piparra peppers gives them an appealing touch of heat. Stuffing baby squid with loose, fluffy morcilla before encasing them in squid ink sauce makes for a brooding, intense version of the classic chipirones and su tinta.
The North African-influenced spice rub on pintxos morunos-style chicken skewers is strong enough to take, but I’m not sure I see the point of brushing fish sauce over it. And whatever umami-goosing mix-ins are added to the fideuà (old Moscatel, for example) only cloud the flavors.
Thankfully, there has been no monkeying around with the formidably tall gâteau Basque, which is flavored with rum and served with a sparkling orange puddle of Cara Cara marmalade.
The genius of traditional Spanish cuisine lies in knowing when to leave good enough alone. It’s a principle that El Quijote’s bartenders could study. Cocktails that originally called for two or three ingredients get five or six; the kalimotxo, a mix of red wine and cola that is one of Spain’s best party tricks, has wine, rum and two types of amaro when all he needs is a cola.
The more-is-more approach works better with the sangria; infused with cinnamon and fortified with balsamic vinegar, it goes like a chilled mulled wine and is a vast improvement over its predecessor. So, I suspect, is the wine list, which is short but manages to attract a fair selection of modern winemakers like Ramón Jané and more traditional outfits like CVNE
I miss the sprawling, sheltered atmosphere of old El Quijote, but that’s all. By the end, even El Quijote’s Ford administration prices weren’t enough to make anyone forget that a number of restaurants served much better Spanish food. Now it’s one of them, and that’s okay.
What the stars mean Due to the pandemic, restaurants are not getting star ratings.
