Zócalo is Spanish for “strong potential, high sodium”

Earlier this year, I devoted this space to an imaginary Country Club Plaza, one populated with only local restaurants — no chains. I still think it’s a good idea, so it would be a little disingenuous of me to kick the locally owned Mexican restaurant Zócalo, which opened on the Plaza this fall.

The city’s historic shopping and entertainment district has a checkered past when it comes to Mexican dining. Among such recent Plaza destinations was the charmless Mi Cocina, where the atmosphere was glossy and the food glossier. Further back in time was Annie’s Santa Fe, the 1980s fixture that most people wistfully recall as having served good food. It was actually pretty second-rate, but nostalgia is a potent thing, and a Plaza without any Mexican food is a Plaza that people love less.

I like Zócalo a lot more than I thought I would. What the place has, in abundance, is potential. The owners, including Chris Ridler of Sol Cantina on 31st Street (speaking of second-rate food), opened their new place less than three months ago, so there’s time for it to live up to its promise. They’d better step it up fast, though. Plaza diners make up their minds quickly.

Its problems don’t include location, unless you believe in curses. The corner it occupies is a high-traffic spot, but its last tenant was the failed Mi Cocina. The building is now lighter and warmer, thanks to a bank of glass doors opening onto a new patio. The interior remains sleek, but the colors now are comforting earth tones. The soundtrack — a friend calls it “modern electronic” — is upbeat but not annoyingly loud. The servers are young, attractive and smart. So how can this place go wrong?

I’ve heard a lot of people — those folks who dash to new restaurants the minute they open so they can “review” the eateries for their friends — talking about Zócalo since it opened at the end of September. Most of the early crowd has said the same thing: It’s a pretty restaurant, and the bar makes fabulous cocktails. The food, I keep hearing, is “OK.”

OK? What the hell does that mean?

What might cause people to utter that noncommittal two-letter assessment is that Zócalo’s owners put a lot of effort into creating pre-opening hype without warning local Tex-Mex addicts what they were in for. The place was announced as a collaboration between Ridler, who is known for his successful saloons, and the owners of Frida’s Contemporary Mexican Cuisine, in Overland Park. Frida’s serves beautiful, imaginative, delicious Mexican food — no grease, no glop. The idea was to bring that approach to the Plaza.

That partnership fell apart almost as quickly as it was announced. “The two groups had different visions,” one Zócalo server explained to me. I don’t know what the “vision” was before the two factions split up, but the result has proved to be a vast improvement over the Plaza’s last tenant serving south-of-the-border dishes, the Mexican mess known as Baja 600.

If owners Ridler and Anthony Durone envisioned a stylish but accessible hipster hangout (like nearby Coal Vines) that could also appeal to tourists who flock to America’s oldest shopping center, they’ve pulled it off. Chef Nathan Nely’s menu is mostly well-executed and pretty tasty, and it is devoid of cheesy Tex-Mex. The waitstaff wastes no time explaining to patrons that the restaurant doesn’t offer burritos, refried beans or chimichangas. And the servers told me that people, having perhaps awakened from comas brought on by a long night at Annie’s, do come in asking for these items.

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But is the food at Zócalo enticing enough to lure diners back for repeat visits? There, so far, is the rub.

Ridler and Durone might earn time and loyalty thanks to that de rigueur window of opportunity: brunch. And Zócalo’s breakfast burrito, with a filling that includes braised short ribs, eggs and caramelized sweet potatoes, seems tailored to the Brush Creek set. On the Saturday morning I stopped in with a friend, I was so torn between that and the chorizo gravy with biscuits that I panicked and ordered something else entirely: huevos rancheros with slices of tender skirt steak and outrageously good fried Yukon Gold potatoes. “They’re not fried,” our server corrected me. “They’re sautéed in olive oil and baked off in our oven.”

My friend Bob surprised me by not ordering a brunch dish — I mean, the price includes a cocktail, so what was he thinking? — and going for a bowl of guacamole for breakfast instead. That’s a fine idea, but this concoction was, sadly, not extraordinary. He followed up with the tortilla soup, which was the disappointment du jour: a thick, almost pasty tomato-based concoction, served lukewarm. The menu promised roasted chicken, grilled sweet corn and lime juice. There was plenty of tender chicken, but the corn wasn’t grilled, and it needed a lot more lime.

The mood at our table improved when dessert arrived. The puffy little flourless chocolate cake, smothered in a blanket of gooey caramelized banana slices, was a nice consolation.

For my second visit, I took Zócalo a table full of challenges: one epicure, one picky eater, one Tex-Mex fan (he likes In-a-Tub tacos — need I say more?), and a former bartender. The ex-mixologist immediately ordered a blood-orange frozen margarita and proclaimed it to be a little heavy on the pomegranate liqueur.

We needed cool beverages for that meal because we ordered the salsa trio as a starter — chips and salsa aren’t free here — and the tortilla chips were so salty, we could barely tell the fiery tomatilla salsa from the milder, slightly sweet roasted-tomato-and-mango version. This kitchen uses heavy kosher salt, and the salt so dominated that entire experience, I couldn’t begin to tell you what the third salsa, a smoked-morita-pepper creation, actually tasted like. To me, it was saline.

Things improved when the entrées arrived. I can finally say I’ve eaten a slab of chorizo meatloaf that I enjoyed. Nely drapes the well-done loaf slice with a poblano cream sauce that’s the exact shade of a 1974 Amana refrigerator. The dish also includes fresh sautéed spinach. But the spinach, like those chips, was distressingly salty.

The picky eater at the table liked the chicken tinga tacos. But who wouldn’t like spicy shredded chicken with glazed pineapple, grilled onion and spinach? His definitive opinion? “They were OK.” (They were better than just OK.)

The epicurean found his empañada a little … beige. The crust enfolding the pork, spinach and carrots was pleasingly flaky, but it needed a little punch, a kick not provided by the pretty but tasteless poblano cream sauce.

There are two ways here to order the hongos sandwich, with herb-roasted mushrooms, goat cheese, roasted corn and fresh arugula: (1) folded into a taco or (2) as a torta tucked into a soft bun. The Tex-Mex fan surprised me by ordering this vegetarian sandwich and loving it.

The ex-barkeep bases her opinion of any Mexican restaurant on the quality of its chile relleno. I don’t use that particular bellwether myself, but I was intrigued to see whether Zócalo would pass muster. From a purely visual standpoint, like most of the pretty dishes served here, the stuffed, battered and fried poblano scored high. The tempura crust was light and feathery, the heat of the pepper tempered by a filling of sweet corn and cow’s-milk Chihuahua cheese. I liked the dish a lot, but the former drink slinger had hoped for grease and glop and was dismayed by their lack.

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The world may not be filled with fans of greasy, gloppy Tex-Mex, but Kansas City certainly is. So Zócalo’s challenge is substantial: It must convince lovers of combination platters, nachos and taco salads to expand their culinary horizons. Any Mexican restaurant can offer tacos and enchiladas. Zócalo serves braised-short-rib tacos, seafood enchiladas stuffed with lump crabmeat and poached shrimp, and an enchilada made with (the menu warns) “terrorized carrots.” (Maybe all that salt scares them.)

The Spanish word zócalo translates as “town square” or “meeting place.” It’s a nod to the Plaza. I hope Zócalo works enough toward its potential for people to make it a regular meeting place. I, for one, am OK with going back.