Check out El Gran Malo's colorful mural and tequila shrine for yourself.
Troy Fields
The tacos and margaritas are full of clever, modern touches.
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On a Sunday night in November, half the city was watching the Houston Dynamo play their toughest against — and ultimately lose to — the L.A. Galaxy in the final game of the MLS Cup. I was, too, although I wasn't watching at a rowdy sports bar or from my own couch at home — I was watching the match at El Gran Malo along with a Bloody Maria made with beef jerky-infused tequila and tomatillos, and a massive beef torta with a fried egg on top. Most of the kitchen crew was lined up along the window into the kitchen, intentionally watching between orders. El Gran Malo may not be the first spot I'd recommend for a televised sporting event, but that night it felt perfect.
There was an affinity that night between the bartenders, the kitchen crew, the waitresses and the patrons as we all watched, transfixed, although I did notice the sadly underseasoned beef in the otherwise excellent torta that night, the patty in desperate need of at least some salt.
Normally, the torta here is a rather remarkable thing, both burger and torta all in one. And though it's clearly terrible for you — especially once you really get going and start stacking fried eggs and crispy pork belly and salty chorizo between the craggy beef patty and the soft telera bread — I find myself craving it at all hours of the day, and pondering the idea that every burger would be exponentially better with hefty amounts of crema and poblano peppers on top. (They would, too.)
El Gran Malo may be better known for its vast tequila selection and house-infused spirits right now, but if the kitchen keeps turning out creations like the Angus beef torta, it'll soon be equally famous for its food. The restaurant seems eager to take that path, too, with a menu designed by chef Greg Lowry (formerly of Voice, soon to be chef de cuisine at Triniti) and an initial press release that described the place as a "gastrocantina."
There have been a few other gastrocantinas in the country prior to El Gran Malo, but I get the feeling that Gran Malo is the only place to really get the concept right so far. It's a silly portmanteau, to be sure, but it's the closest thing I've found to accurately describe the bent of a restaurant that's part dive bar, part modern Tex-Mex, part cocktail mecca, part locavore haven, part craft beer purveyor and part neighborhood hangout, seeming to actively and audaciously defy labeling.
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My first visit to El Gran Malo was a whirlwind friends-and-family night, where the owners had invited regular patrons of their other establishment — the purposely under-the-radar Dirt Bar — and nearby residents of its Timbergrove neighborhood to see exactly what a gastrocantina is.
That same dark-and-divey Dirt Bar aesthetic had gotten a bit spiffed up here, with a wickedly glowing shrine to tequila decorating one broad wall and a Kevin Hernandez mural of Lotería cards, luchadores and the Virgen herself on another. The waitresses were decked out in cheeky punk rock chic, rumbling from one table to the next like derby girls. Shots of tequila were passed around tables one after another, gulped down as fast as a waitress could describe the various infusions: "That one's habanero-ginger, and that one's cucumber-mint." The red lights and close quarters and manic energy made it feel like being swallowed alive by a Mexican traveling circus, tattooed women and all.
And although I loved the blatantly surreal feeling of the place, I wasn't as impressed with the food. The ceviche had barely been marinated and the corn tortillas of the tacos fell apart under the weight of some rather bland snapper and chicken inside. "I'll come back here for the tequila," I thought to myself. "But not the food."
Less than a month later, I was back. For tequila, mostly. I wanted to try the increasingly fascinating infusions that owners Dimitre Dimitrov, Steve Sharma and Lea McKinney had been creating. Dimitrov told me about the infusions that had worked — red and golden beet, for example, and more traditional flavors like strawberry and mango — and those that hadn't, like a too-delicate starfruit infusion that was lost in the flavor of the tequila. Not all of the infusions work, after all — and not all of them are for every palate, either. But when they do, they make some of the most miraculous margaritas in town, like the "thymus" infusion of fresh thyme and other herbs that results in a brisk, clean, grassy flavor that complements the floral notes in the tequila itself.
I casually ordered a few tacos to soak up the margaritas, and was floored to find the boring tacos from a month ago replaced by respectable ones, double-wrapped in hot corn tortillas and plump with Victoria beer-marinated carnitas, scallions, cilantro and red onions.
But it was the pleasantly fatty, crispy and caramel-tinged pork belly marinated in Mexican Coca-Cola with pickled red onions and peanuts that sent me over the edge. I hadn't given El Gran Malo a fair shake the first time around on that whirlwind night, and was reeling to find the food so improved in such a short amount of time.
