La Sirenita

This Riverdale gem, a popular destination in Little Mexico, is almost as notable for what it doesn’t have as what it does: The dining room, red-white-and-green flags flapping above plastic-covered tables, is virtually gringoless. And it’s a decidedly male preserve, with a heavy representation of construction workers and laborers who come by when they’re done with their day, to be served heaping plates full of attentive country cooking. A third notable absence is cheese—or, more precisely, the thick and gooey blanket of Colby and Jack that is thrown willy-nilly over so many dishes that dare call themselves Mexican. At La Sirenita, you’ll find instead a light dusting of the crumbly, white queso fresco, followed by a zigzag of Mexican crema, which adds a finishing touch to the terrific quesadilla. The menu at La Sirenita can be thought of as offering two distinct possibilities for eating: a chance to bone up on the sort of traditional delicacies this city has traditionally had to go without, and an opportunity to see the commonplace made remarkable. Among the former: fried quail in a bright, tangy green sauce laced with slices of onion; huarache, a masa cake topped with beans and either beef or chicken; and a gutsy, porky posole. The chilaquiles are a hungry man’s casserole: an interlocking layer of torn, homemade corn tortillas topped with a green or red sauce, a fried egg, and a Milanese-style chicken cutlet that would make for a tasty entree all by itself. It’s the familiar classics, though, that offer the strongest rebuke to Washington’s generic happy-hour fare: The chili relleno—a smoky, wonderfully firm poblano encased within a light batter and bedded atop a red sauce that intensifies the spiciness of the pepper without bringing any additional heat—has more depth of flavor, more lasting soul, than an entire punch card’s worth of visits to Chipotle could ever hope to deliver.
—Todd Kliman, May 21, 2004