Poco’s on the Boulevard braces for life after its cable close-up

Popular chef and restaurateur Lorenza “Poco” Gutierrez died just five months ago, after a long battle with cancer. Her namesake restaurant, however, has been given a second life.

Some of the renewed interest in the five-year-old Poco’s on the Boulevard is doubtless due to the dramatic makeover given to both the building and the menu by British chef and cable star Robert Irvine and his Restaurant: Impossible team. The Food Network hit series descended upon Poco’s on the Boulevard in August for an episode set to air November 21. There’s no denying that the TV crew brightened up the place’s dingy interior (and slashed the menu).

Bubbly, personable Poco would have loved what Restaurant: Impossible did to her dull dining room. Certainly she must have stopped loving the interior as it was, a décor that hadn’t been altered much since its beginnings as a Waid’s diner in the 1960s. The walls were painted a muddy earth tone (that’s how I remember them, anyway), the carpeting was ugly, and the room always seemed as dark as a cavern — day or night.

The inside is now painted a vivid chartreuse, with accents of white: sheer curtains, a bold painted stripe intersecting with the picture windows, and white shadow boxes filled with bits and pieces of Mexicana (glazed tiles, baskets, mirrors). There’s a shiny wood floor, too, and new red-painted chairs.

Irvine’s handiwork can only help Poco’s. Since their mother’s death, Claudia Endicott and Dana Gutierrez have been the siblings among Gutierrez’s five children interested in continuing the business. “It’s been very hard keeping the restaurant going,” Endicott says. “The makeover helped.”

Irvine’s scrambling, however, seems not to have involved changes to the huevos con chorizo or anything else on the breakfast menu. The dinner menu, on the other hand, ended up being combined with the lunch menu, with about a third of the original offerings 86’d for good.

Or so Irvine thinks.

It’s not unusual, according to a July New York Times article, for restaurateurs who have experienced the Restaurant: Impossible magic to resurrect popular dishes after Irvine and company leave town. And sure enough, within weeks of the Poco’s redo, Endicott had restored nearly a dozen dishes, including the “grande” burrito and the Mayan tacos. “Our customers wanted them,” she says. “And this is a business.”

Believe me, I understand. On my first visit to the redesigned Poco’s, none of the four friends I took along gave a second glance to Irvine’s fancy dishes. I could practically hear the famous chef demand that we consider his tequila-tomatillo salmon, his chili-marinated skirt steak. But our eyes were immediately drawn to the familiar: tacos, enchiladas, chile rellenos. Anyone who has worked in a restaurant for more than a minute knows why: Give customers what they want or they won’t be back. Irvine may cringe at the idea of a fluffy taco, but it’s a best-seller at Poco’s.

So call this a period of adjustment for Poco’s on the Boulevard. Not all of Irvine’s culinary creativity has been warmly received by the Poco’s regulars. That includes me. One of my favorite dishes in the Lorenza Gutierrez repertoire was her grilled pork tenderloin, dappled with a tomatillo salsa and compote of sweet dried cherries. That’s still on the menu, but the firm polenta cake has been replaced with a puddle of creamy corn polenta that shares its consistency with Cream of Wheat — and is just as bland. “We’re thinking of bringing back the old polenta,” Endicott told me with a sigh.

Still, I say this new Poco’s is the best of both worlds: Restaurant: Impossible meets the spirit of Lorenza Gutierrez. Sometimes, though, it’s hard to tell where one leaves off and the other begins. The roasted chicken, covered with a dark, bittersweet mole, is excellent, but Endicott insists that it’s her mother’s dish, not Irvine’s. And while the menu says the lamb shanks — added by Irvine — are braised with chili adobo sauce and chimichurri, there wasn’t a drop of chimichurri (olive oil, vinegar, oregano, onion and garlic) within miles of the plate I got. The meat I received was slathered with a tasty salsa verde. It was also beautiful and fork-tender, though it came with enough black beans to feed a family of eight.

Poco’s doesn’t have a lot for vegetarians: veggie tamales, spinach or cheese enchiladas, and a chile relleno. But most of those offerings are served with rice that’s cooked with chicken stock or refried beans made with lard. The guacamole is meat-free, of course, but its add-on ingredients tend to vary. On my first visit, I marveled at the simplicity of the mashed avocado — no competing cilantro, no salsa, no lemon juice. But the second time I ordered it, all of those components were evident (and then some), and it had been whipped to the thickness of a milkshake. (The translucent, tissue-thin plantain chips served with it, however, were a nice touch.)

I can’t say whether it was Irvine or Endicott who had the bright idea of offering both a dense caramel flan and a smooth crème brûlée on the dessert list, but I approve. But perhaps no one should take credit for the margarita cake. “Are you sure there’s no liquor in this?” I asked the server. He dashed back to the kitchen and returned with a big grin: “We put tequila and Grand Marnier on it,” he said. Endicott insists that the only alcohol is in the batter, where it can bake out. “It all evaporates in the oven,” she told me later. “But the flavor is still pretty strong.” Very strong. I pushed the pastry away after a bite. A piece of cake isn’t worth risking a DUI.

It’s Poco’s that is running the greater risk, though. Operating a restaurant, especially in this economy, is anything but a piece of cake, even with national exposure from a highly rated reality show. “We’re much busier than we were before Restaurant: Impossible made over the restaurant,” Endicott told me. “But after all the publicity dies down, it’s still up to us.”