Toro Cantina a crowd-pleasing fun spot
Prime in Albany and now owns the downtown Albany steakhouse and its fast-casual sibling, Prime Burger & Shakehouse in Troy.
At Toro, a pendulous ball of waxy confectioner’s chocolate (as seen on Instagram) arrives dangling from a custom-built stand. Under the watchful gaze of our server, we’re given a baton, and by the second or third whack — who can remember? — crisp churros, strawberries and pineapple chunks scatter like confetti on a tray positioned to capture the loot. More hits the floor like the under-table devastation of a child’s birthday party and requires ginger navigation as you leave. But we’re not alone. Others are knocking back tequila cocktails and smashing Trojan boules.
Toro is a little bit chain, a lot bespoke and popular with the crowd. You can tell by the raft of students snapping birthday selfies in delight at being out, the date-night couple in matching baseball hats, solo diners spaced apart at the bar, and, on the early side of 6 o’clock, brave families with a lotta kids under 5. At one point the crescendo of voices sounds like the food hall at the mall, as you might expect in a 7,000-square-foot space. Despite the size, it’s inviting, with friendly service and mild, safe food. What it’s not, should you want to get mired in authenticity, is strictly Mexican. But the tortillas are exhaustively made in-house, from the nixtamalization of imported Mexican blue corn to its grinding into flour for masa dough.
We’re seated beneath the branches of a fake tree that in its natural habitat at the Rainforest Cafe might be expected to come to life. A nearby wall is covered in shiny metal cow skulls, and behind us a server is theatrically mashing avocados at the green-tiled guacamole bar.
We have time to take all this in because our food takes such a long time to come. Not that we mind, with so many tequila varieties from which to choose and tasting flights in 1-ounce pours. We’re deep into a hibiscus prickly pear margarita with a sticky hibiscus flower and a Paloma with enough of Toro’s exclusive Patron Reposado Select to scorch your breath. We’re particularly impressed when our server uses a smoke gun to inflate a smoke dome over a drink of mezcal, guava and Lillet Blanc named Up In Smoke.
Plates suddenly descend in a flurry of masked servers. We’ve taken advantage of samplers, and the three ceviches tell a Goldilocks tale: Diced red snapper with jalapeno, avocado and salsa verde is too thickly cut and fishy, and a vegan ceviche with avocado, lime and grapefruit is too bitter, needing brightness and salt, but the classic shrimp with cilantro and lime is just right.
There are empanadas and tamales delivered to cheering guests and burritos the size of swaddled babies carried dramatically overhead on silver platters by a conga line of staff. We wonder who’s getting the giant 14inch, $48 lobster quesadilla and plancha-fired steak. Not us.
Tacos come two per order, with the chewy, fresh 50/50 flour-corn blend or blue-corn tortillas chosen for you, though you can have a mixed double for a $3 fee. Signature lamb barbacoa, available in larger cazuela ( bowl) form, is fork-tender after 10 hours of slow cooking with banana leaves, garlic and spices; juicy roast chicken is offset by cool jicama radish coleslaw; the red snapper, cooked and glazed in salsa negra, is lovely in cilantro pesto; and sweet potato and goat cheese is pumped up on mushroomy corn fungus huitelacoche. They offer a good intro to house-made salsas, though you can order a sampler of all seven should you require more fun.
The sweetly caramelized plantains in cotija cheese are irresistible. We eat them all. The crisp, fried potatoes with spicy chipotle are something you probably shouldn’t finish, except that you will. The sweet-corn esquites misses the requisite smoke, char or toppings crucial to an off-the cob version of Mexican street corn. We eat it anyway.
Servers keep bringing our desserts — that dangling chocolate ball and a flan the size of a loaf. But we’re waiting for our guacamole sampler, ordered back with our first tequila drink and those fantastically crunchy complementary chips and salsa.
“Where is it? Good question!” our server says and laughs. “Do you even want it now?”
Well, yes, we do. Never mind our loosened pants or rosy glow. ¡Fiesta!
It’s time for a masked stroll. Turns out the tall, brightly lit floor lamp in the middle of the room is not a glowing portal to another universe. It’s a selfie ring, where guests pose with dewy, illuminated skin before a portrait of a woman painted like a Dios de los Muertos skull. By the time the photo reaches your cellphone, a banner and #torocantina hashtag have been Photoshopped in.
I’m back, and the guacamole is, well, unexpected, if unquestionably more freshly made than any on Wolf Road. Each of us has a favorite. The smoky version, with sweet potato and pork belly, is a delicious beast (except for the bone my guest is pulling from her mouth). But is it guacamole? The sweet one, with pineapple, papaya, habanero and cheese, is wet and fruity. But is it guacamole? The classic — loaded with undeclared tomatoes, rendering it devastating to one guest — is so limey we cross eyes and pray for tequila and salt.
Don’t worry, the desserts are back! My friend is smashing the chocolate pinata, and we’re digging into a flan the texture and funky flavor of spreadable cheese. So we snarf up the churros and drain our purple or chile-spiked drinks.
The night isn’t over. I tiptoe over broken chocolate to a restroom corridor that ends with “Tacos, yes; You, maybe” spelled out in hot-pink neon on the wall. Does it capture your thoughts? Maybe, a little, judging by the all those having a pandemically protected good time. You’ll photograph and post it on Facebook because, like everything at Toro Cantina, it’s compulsive, scripted fun.