Review, Part One: Hector’s on Henderson
That we pulled up to the valet at Victor Tango’s only to find that we faced over an hour wait at 10pm on a Saturday should be catalogued as “Obvious Foreshadowing”. Having already parked the car we opted for the next most convenient option, Hector’s. Years ago, when this adorable little restaurant-in-a-house opened on Henderson, amid huge players like Tei Tei and Cuba Libre, the chef was an acquaintance of mine in whom I had every confidence. The one time I made it in for dinner, the Candied Apple Creme Brulee confirmed that supposition.
I was given pause, however, by the knowledge that not only was my friend no longer at the helm, but there had been a number of names on the menu in the time since (most notably Blythe Beck, of Naughty Kitchen quasi-fame).
The first thing any normal person should notice about Hector’s is the intimate feel of the space and the attentive and gracious staff. The first things I noticed were the cheap church rec room carpet and the crooning lesbian on the piano. I decided to summarily brush these things aside hoping that the food would speak for itself and the spectacular company would make up for the atmosphere. Sadly, only one of these things happened.
Before we’d been seated even five minutes, we were greeted by a homely older gentleman who introduced himself as Hector. He was very nice, and asked us if we were celebrating anything special. It being a first date, we both awkwardly looked at the floor and he took his cue. Not to leave us, however… but to do some piano bar style singing for the entire restaurant. Cut to my jaw on the floor.
Resuming our composure, we both looked for refuge in alcohol. Our search for a specialty cocktail list came up empty, so we ordered our standard vodkas+whatever’s. Strike one. My companion, country as all get-out, decided to start us with Tiger Shrimp Grits. The dish came out quickly, 3 large shrimp planted, cocktail-style on a pile of grits. This is, my companion was quick to point out, not how they’re meant to be served. We sort of muddled our way through, dipping or spooning the grits onto the shrimp, which then had to be de-tailed. GRACE FAIL. Not only that, but the grits were bland and hot. Strike two.
It should be noted it was at this point that we noticed we had no silverware. A detail our waiter never rectified. We ended up stealing silver from an adjacent table twice that evening, and concluded our waiter was likely drunk.
It came time to order mains and, though I’ll never know why I did this, I opted for Hector’s Favourite Salad with chicken which boasted a “creamy dreamy vinigariette” that piqued my interest. I don’t recall what my date’s first choice was, but the waiter came back and informed us it was unavailable, and recommended the salmon. I didn’t try it, so that’s the last I’ll mention of it. An elongated period of slightly awkward date conversation and drink sipping later, we’d commented on the interesting art on the walls, the pianist, Hector, the strange crowd, and our drunk waiter, the waiter finally prevented me burying my face in my drink by delivering our plates.
The coolest thing about my salad was the bowl. The chicken was processed, and the dressing I’d so been looking forward to covered the greens en mass but totally phoned it in. I never tasted it once. Strike three, I’m out. Aside from my rather fabulous and laissez-faire date the only redeeming quality of the experience was the Candied Apple Creme Brulee which remains a staple on the menu and was a delectable hyperglycemia-inducing end to the meal.
A hundred dollars later I was less than pleased. I decided not to make my date aware, as that was clearly in bad taste, and began writing this post in my head.
Next time, the night continues: Teddy’s Room, Burlesque show or shit-show?
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