La Lucha in Heights deftly balances nostalgia and new oyster age
It’s a very Houston 2019 dilemma to make one’s way through a glimmering platter of Murder Points and Panacea Pearls, trying to decide which of these Gulf Coast oysters is better.
It’s impossible, I thought, as I sat at the counter at La Lucha, chef Ford Fry’s tribute to the old-school seafood and chicken dinners served at the late San Jacinto Inn.
The Murder Points, which made their way out of Alabama into the Houston market about two years ago, were as sweet and buttery as the day’s printed oyster tasting notes suggested, borne up by a briny undercurrent and delicately fluted, clean-as-a-whistle half shells.
The Panacea Pearls, “ranched” by a co-op in Crawfordville, Fla., could hardly have been more different: meatier and briskly salty, with complex green vegetal undertones. Meticulously scrubbed and lounging on a bed of shaved ice, both the Panaceas and the Murder Points were the kinds of oysters I am talking about when I say I want three or four dozen for my last meal.
They were good enough that I did not blink (well, much, anyway) at their prices of $2.45 and $2.80 per oyster, respectively — the kind of per-piece cost once reserved for prestige cold-water oysters shipped in from Canada and New England.
Gone are the days when a dozen generic, who-knows-where-theycame-from Gulf oysters rang in at 5 or 6 bucks. With its all-you-can-eat menu, La Lucha’s touchstone San Jacinto Inn — where I tasted my first raw oysters as a college student in the late 1960s — hearkened back to those profligate 19thcentury days when Texans consumed oysters by the midden heapful. (You can see the historical evidence on the walls of Gilhooley’s, the legendary oyster shack in San Leon.)
Nowadays Gulf oysters have entered a more serious — and, I would argue, glorious — age. They may be carefully farmed; or, here in Texas, harvested and labeled from their historical appellation areas, which fell into disuse during much of the 20th century.
La Lucha definitely inhabits this more rigorous and costly age. The fried-chicken-and-biscuit platters that flowed endlessly at the San Jacinto Inn between 1918 and 1987 materialize here in $35.95 (whole bird) or $18.95 (half bird) form. You can throw in a half pound of big fried Gulf shrimp for another $16.95, and you should. Add drinks, a bottle of bubbles from a fun list of 20 sparkling wines, and a side of sprightly deviled eggs or crisp french fries served with a suave, tantalizing smoked-oyster mayo, and you’re looking at a tab that can easily climb into the three-figure zone.
Instead of the airy, whitewashed dining room on stilts that defined the San Jacinto Inn experience, La Lucha — named for the Battle of San Jacinto and remodeled out of the bones of the departed Hunky Dory — resembles a Rat Pack lounge writ large, with low lights, tubular steel armchairs and mismatched vintage lounge chairs deployed near the entrance.
The inn was full of daylight, or bright incandescence; in my mind’s eye, I can still see the much-loved biscuits clearly. At La Lucha, the sepia tones once the sun sets make everything look pretty much the same. That’s exactly why weekend lunches on the patio, at picnic tables under a magnificent old oak, strike me as ideal, and closer in feel to the late, lamented inn.
But the flavors certainly pop, even if the low-lit colors don’t. Sometimes, because of a tendency toward oversalting, they pop too much.
That seems to happen more with the fried items. One evening I enjoyed impeccable fried-to-order chicken, dewy under a miraculously crunchy, battered skin that had been judiciously seasoned. Batterfried shrimp that same night were perfect. On another visit, fried shrimp and fried oysters wore crusts so salty I couldn’t eat more than a few. And after my first meal here, back in autumn, the salt in various dishes seemed to accumulate. I went home and drank about a quart of water.
Not that the salt seesaw keeps me from adoring this restaurant. The place is deftly managed by Matt Crawford, with a gracious welcome and good service that’s not, as I have observed, reserved solely for critics. There are dishes I deeply crave from chef Bobby Matos (who also runs the kitchen at Fry’s State of Grace) and his crew.
The sauces and condiments, in particular, knock me out, whether it’s the dimensional sambal honey or green harissa that come with the fried chicken; that haunting smoked-oyster mayonnaise; or the obstreperous white remoulade that’s used as a dressing on the brilliant shrimp remoulade, which reads like a salad on its bed of iceberg chiffonade.
The horseradish that gives that remoulade its lovely burn is the real, rooty thing, shaved into an ivory filigree. It comes on the side with cocktail sauce, so that you can mix your own. I may like my oysters unadorned, the better to taste them in all their complexity, but the cocktail sauce I mix is so good I just eat it with the saltines that come by the half-sleeve; or with fried shrimp or oysters.
The Pharmacy Burger, a double-meat, doublecheese swaddled in tissue, is not only the least expensive thing on the menu at $12.95, it’s one of the best — an old-school joy that lives up to its nostalgic name. And the oyster loaf — an Instagram-ready outrage constructed of Mrs. Baird’s Texas toast — is atavistic fun with its dressing of Duke’s tart, ur-Southern mayonnaise and dill pickles.
I am fixated on La Lucha’s dreamy yeast rolls and biscuits. The former, cushiony puffs with shiny tops and a sprinkle of coarse sea salt, are so good with their fluff of honey butter that I’ve been known to order them for dessert. And the biscuits come hot and crunchy without, pillowy within. Which is a good thing since the biscuits at San Jacinto Inn were a huge deal. (I still have the recipe card they used to give out in my battered file box.)
Fry and Matos leaven the 20th-century nostalgia with modern Gulf Coast ideas that mostly come off pretty well. There are capable versions of the wood-grilled oysters that are mandatory these days; both the boiled-to-order peel-andeat shrimp and fat Texas blue crab claws can be had in a Thai basil garlicbutter. Along with the fierce Thai chiles that light up Matos’ seasonal watermelon salad and other specials, they nod to the influence of Asian cuisine in today’s city.
The drinks program entails suitable oyster wines and a handful of well-made cocktails — including one of the few local champagne cocktails I care to drink, the Why Not?, tinged with bitters and grapefruit.
For something completely different, ask the bartenders at the hospitable, U-shaped counter about their mezcal and oyster pairings. The vegetal and fruity tones in the agave spirit can work an interesting dialogue with those kinds of currents in the shellfish. I’m not giving up my Muscadet or white Burgundy allegiance any time soon, but the mezcal/oyster combo is an interesting experiment.
In the end, I’m happiest here tipping back halfshells and reveling in the Gulf of Mexico flavor shadings: the forceful, thrilling salt and umami of deep-cupped Shellbanks, out of Alabama; or the meaty tones and tantalizingly furred finish on Queen Bess oysters, farmed by Houston’s own Jim Gossen in East Champagne Bay, La.
I’m a homer when it comes to Gulf oysters. Although I love cold-water varieties from the Northeast, few things make me madder than out-of-state snobs disrespecting our local half shells. And there’s nowhere I’d rather geek out on Gulf oysters than La Lucha, where Matos’ enthusiasm for them lights up his face, and his menu.
Nostalgia is nice. But the Gulf Coast oyster future is better.