Ciudad

When it comes to food, most people are naturally conservative. They like what they grew up with. Italians get nervous if they miss pasta more than three days in a row, and while they relish pepperoncino in their penne arabbiata, they're wary of the heat in Thai dishes. Indians get homesick for naan and their mother's chutneys, Cubans for ropa vieja and media noche sandwiches. On one of my young nephew's first excursions to a nice restaurant, he ordered chicken, only to wail inconsolably when it came with sauce he wasn't expecting.

I've met people who have lived in Los Angeles for years and have yet to encounter any form of Latin cooking. How you can live in the midst of countless Mexican, Salvadoran, Peruvian and Cuban restaurants and not have tried any of them, ever, is something of a mystery, but it happens. When I took one such friend to Ciudad, Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger's downtown Latin restaurant, he wasn't familiar with any of the cuisines represented, but he was game.

The idea behind Ciudad is to celebrate the cooking of the great Latin cities of the world, from Havana to Barcelona, Lima and São Paulo. And this is exactly the city in which to do it.

So as to taste more dishes, John and I make a pact to share everything. He looks over the menu and asks wonderingly, "What's Spanish cuisine like?" "Let me order," I say, and choose a slew of appetizers. Meanwhile John looks up from the wine list, happily pointing out the wide-ranging selection from Chile, Argentina, Rioja and the Spanish Basque country just as a server brings us a basket of flatbreads that are as thin as pappadums and coated in poppy seeds or ground chile.

Bolivian sweet corn tamales are fabulous, sticky and custardy with the taste of fresh, milky corn and served with a tiny dish of heat-seeking peach mole sauce. We love the Honduran ceviche -- seafood in a puddle of coconut milk laced with fresh pineapple and chile. Romaine hearts and roasted chile strips are dressed in a gently pungent Cabrales blue cheese vinaigrette and garnished with crunchy green plantain croutons. A rock shrimp and white bean tostada disappears at an alarming rate. By now, pleasantly surprised, my inexperienced friend is getting into the spirit of things: He's discovering that Latin food is not all hot chiles and melted cheese.

On a Friday night, Ciudad is hopping. After 5, the bar is filled with young professionals and downtown residents enjoying cuchifritos (little snacks) and drinks such as Ciudad's minty mojito or a Brazilian caipirinha, made with lime, sugar and cachaca. Cuban trumpets soar on the sound system, and Cesaria Evora's whiskey-dark voice sings of Cape Verde in rooms painted the color of lemon and lime. It should be noted that the noise level can get out of hand; this is not a place for a quiet conversation.

I've always thought Ciudad's appetizers win out over the main courses, and after a few more visits, that still holds true, with some exceptions. Every bite of the paella is so laden with flavor that I could pass up the shrimp, calamari, chicken, chorizo and shellfish for the rice alone. Beef lovers should order the Peruvian marinated skirt steak, which comes with refried white beans and a watercress salad. The rib-eye is a pass. It's so overcooked that it tastes like sawdust in which whole garlic cloves have been stuffed. And the platter of Spanish tapas is messy and unappetizing. It tastes as if they've been sitting out all day.

The composition of the plates here always makes a statement. My pan-roasted black cod one evening comes with a wonderful white corn and asparagus succotash. Brazilian moqueca, a seafood stew of meaty shrimp, mussels, fish and cockles in a fragrant coconut-lime broth, is served over coconut rice. For vegetarians, there's the Latin vegetable fiesta, which includes savory black beans, rice with gondules (black-eyed peas), grilled eggplant and other vegetables.

Service is a problem. Our waiter talks to us as if we're children and then disappears for 20 minutes at a time. At lunch, when I ask about iced tea, a server tells me I'm probably not going to like the jamaica (dried hibiscus blossoms), wrinkling his nose -- a surfer dude confronted with a weird taste.

One night I drive straight from the airport, where I'd picked up a friend from New York, and arrive at Ciudad at 10 minutes to 9. I'd heard that Randy St. Clair, executive chef at City Restaurant in the late '80s, had just taken the helm at Ciudad after cooking in Australia for many years. When we pull up in front, the valet says he's not sure if they're even open. "Not open?" roars the New Yorker, striding forward. He sees the open door and yells back, "Of course it's open."

We enter, but there's no one at the maitre d's podium and not a waiter in sight. We stand at the edge of the dining room for five, 10 minutes. The woman talking to a friend near the bar turns out to be a server. She walks by us carrying desserts to a table without asking whether we're being helped. Another waiter suddenly appears. Can we sit down? He jabs at his watch pointedly. "I have to check! I have to check!" he says, shaking his head. He disappears. We wait around some more. Finally someone emerges from the back who asks if we want to eat. Since it turns out the chef has already left for the night, and it's clear everyone wants to go home anyway, we leave.

What's going on? The Too Hot Tamales, Milliken and Feniger, have had so many irons in the fire with books, movie consulting and TV shows, and restaurants in both L.A. and Las Vegas and one about to open in Pasadena, that Ciudad isn't getting the management it needs.

Admittedly, downtown dining on a weeknight is difficult, and if there are only 20 people in the room, the restaurant can feel dead. But at lunch, Ciudad is thronged. Prices are lower, the crowd is younger, and you can get heroic Cuban sandwiches made on big, puffy buns that have been baked in-house and stuffed with ham, pork and melted cheese. They're huge, though. Finish it all and you may be off to siesta land by 2. Even better is the moist lamb version, as good in its way as a French dip sandwich.

"If only," I keep wanting to say about Ciudad. It's such an appealing concept. If only it felt like someone was home here and the restaurant wasn't left to run on autopilot. If only more people would consider dining downtown, enough to keep the waiters alert on weeknights as well as weekends. If only.