The Enchilada Chronicles: Maderas Kitchen

Sometimes a quest leads in unexpected directions. So it went when my pursuit of the city's best enchiladas found me at Maderas Kitchen & Cantina, a gently upscale Mex-Mex retreat in a beleaguered corner of lower Lower Westheimer.

I say "beleaguered" for two reasons. The dread orange construction barrels have made this curve where Elgin becomes the 100 block of Westheimer a driving nightmare. Also, the strip mall where Maderas dwells gives way to an eastern end that's a scene of despair. The empty carcasses of Jus' Mac and a wing joint bode ill.

But I ended up happy to have bumped and swerved my way into Maderas' parking lot. Not so much because of the mole enchiladas I had come to sample, but because of what else I discovered: including some of the finest frijoles a la charra I''ve ever tasted, and a "brunch all day" menu that I regard as a boon to man- and womankind.

But I'm zipping ahead of myself.

There are no enchiladas I order with more trepidation than the mole variety. That's because moles of the general Pueblan and/or black persuasion can be too sweet for my particular comfort. It's tricky to balance the chiles, ground nuts or seeds, fruits and chocolate out with enough salt, heat and acid. Too often, the results cloy.

Yet Maderas' enmoladas, as they list them on the menu, looked promising online, long, slender specimens bedazzled with intricate ribbons of crema. In person, the lake of mole negro—the color of deepest, darkest mahogany when I peered into its depths—did in fact prove to be too sweet for me, although a warm, burnished dried-chile heat shone through.

I wasn't keen on the minced chicken filling, either, so finely processed that it could have been a dryish fluff of baby food. I get that Maderas was going for elegance here, right down to the microgreens and marigold blossom embellishments. The pretty plate was pleasant enough. I ate all three enchiladas (I was starving), with no inclination to mop up the plentiful sauce. "B-minus," I thought to myself. "Or maybe C-plus."

However. The frijoles a la charra that came with the $19 enchilada plate were superlative—so buoyant and porky I asked for the few remaining spoonfuls to be put in a container for takeout. I had zero shame.

And a guacamole I ordered first raced with lime and garlic, splitting the difference between chunky and creamy. It could have fed two, with its colorful flock of yellow and red totopos. I ate the whole thing by myself.

Then I promptly returned to Maderas to sample its all-day brunch menu, an irresistible option for someone who considers eggs a civilized option at any hour. Give me a mid-afternoon plateful of huevos rancheros and all's right with the world.

My Huevos Divorciados—sunnyside up, one egg with green salsa and one with red, modestly runny yolks—were terrific stuff. They were cupped by crackly-crisp tostadas, then flurried with crumbly queso fresco, grated cotija and little sheaves of the microgreens (cilantro and otherwise) that this kitchen loves. A bowlful of excellent refried black beans came alongside, plus fanned avocado slices and red-onion crescents. Great to look at, fun to eat.

I preferred the tart kick of the green tomatillo salsa to the lower-keyed red chile version, but I polished off every bite and wished there were more. The $13 price tag reminded me that eggs are becoming a luxury item. Still, it seemed fair. And if you hit Maderas between 3 and 6 p.m., when Happy Hour is in effect and all margaritas are half price, it's relatively affordable.

Cocktails are a big deal here. Maderas—which means "woods" or "timber" in Spanish, and has no connection to the mega-trendy Toca Madera athwart the Thompson Hotel—exudes a wanna-be-clubby vibe that extends to the modern Spanish-language playlist of crooners, belters and hipsters. Half the space is devoted to a glinting, bottle-lined bar counter. The back wall of the narrow bar and dining room features the kind of shelving and objets you'd see at a modern gallery. At one end, a vivid floral mural echoes the blossoming subtropical greenery along the patio.

In short, Maderas feels more like a hang than a conventional restaurant. The umbrella-and-canvas-shaded patio, cooled by two powerful overhead fans and festooned with string lights, is brunch-worthy at any hour.

Once I figured out the bartending bent, I was able to customize my rocks Margaritas to suit. The key, I found, was to request "sin agave," or "no syrup," so that the drinks weren't too sweet for me.

The Clásica margarita really was; and tamarindo and cucumber versions proved lovely and subtle. When they are half-price, i.e. $6.50 to $7, they're a fine deal. (Yes, there are a couple of $6 bites to go with them, including some flautas ahogadas. Or share the $11 guacamole.)

And if you're a fan of the dessert-like, super trendy Carajillo cocktail, here its espresso and Licor 43 is set off by a toasted marshmallow that recalls childhood campfires. You might want to go for broke and order a delicate Cuatro Leches, too. It's very pure and cloudlike, with finishing touches of fresh strawberry and grated coconut.

Savoring it, I silently thanked the enchilada obsession that had led me here. And chortled over the very Houstonian impulse to add extra "milks" to the tres leches formula. Too much is never, ever enough here.

A prosperous Latino crowd comes and goes, mixed with classic Lower Westheimer/Montrose denizens. I saw everyone from put-together women enjoying after-work drinks to an extended family celebrating their newly minted UH graduate. A handsome grackle even strutted through the patio, hopped to a rail, looked over his shoulder in annoyance, and flew away.

"Who owns this place?" I asked a waiter, one of a seriously cordial, gentlemanly crew. He told me the proprietor was Salvadoran, and that the chef was from Chihuahua. It fit.