Two days after Josef Centeno has left Lot 1, an unassuming restaurant that quickly became a culinary beacon in Echo Park, the wunderkind chef still looks frazzled. Who could blame him? Since it first opened its doors in May, Lot 1 showcased Centeno’s envelope-pushing, palate-converting dishes. Yet just shy of five months in—a crucial point, when food critics typically lay siege with the full stroke of their pens—Centeno is suddenly, sensationally a free agent.
We meet at Canele, a restaurant Centeno, 34, lists first among his favorites on the east side of town. It’s a sliver of a space with exposed brick and ceilings high enough to prevent the onset of claustrophobia. The small dining room dictates a "no reservations" policy, a first-come, first-served axiom that favors the locals of Atwater Village—yet the Mediterranean-inflected cuisine draws foodists from all over the city. A neighborhood joint with excellent food everyone wants to try? We see the appeal.
During the prep time between brunch and dinner service, the cooks are singing along to Elvis. It’s a comfortable scene, and after a glass or two of sauvignon blanc, Centeno finally begins to relax. A meal at Canele’s coveted communal table brings another level of ease. He decides we should go family-style, and the kitchen brings a feast of salads, pastas and a whole branzino that Centeno expertly fillets and serves tableside. (Going out to dinner as a chef must be hard; everyone expects you to keep working.) Hearty, soulful, rich in flavor, moderately priced: The food here is a lot like Centeno’s—minus the wacky combinations and, of course, his penchant for Cream of Wheat.
Sigh. It’ll be a while before we savor Centeno's paleron, a pot roast paired with kumquats and Cream of Wheat that was comforting and unexpected all at once. “The Cream of Wheat happened because I needed semolina flour," he explains. "I sent my busser to get some, but he came back with that instead. Service had already started and I needed something. So I used it. It tastes good, so I keep using it.”
Seems nerve-racking, substituting ingredients at the last minute. But as Centeno says, “I always work on the fly like that.” His amuse bouche of coddled quail eggs, maple syrup and other mysterious things—first seen at Opus, where he landed after working at high-profile establishments Aubergine and Meson G—is another example of necessity meeting on-the-fly inspiration. "This eccentric couple came in [to Opus] and wanted a tasting of just egg-based dishes as a challenge," he recalls. "I took the challenge, and that’s the one that stuck. Can’t remember the rest of the menu to save my life, though.”
Provocative customers notwithstanding, Opus is where Centeno started to make his mark on the L.A. culinary scene: “A great experience…It helped me see where I really wanted go with my food.” He was continually, pleasantly surprised by the adulation. Of course, he gave the people lots to cheer about. The $30 three-course tasting dinners, which unfailingly arrived with additional samplings, became the city’s worst-kept foodie secret.
Price points and the dining experience are hardly lost on Centeno, who had noted back then that his average diners seemed to be in their mid-20s. “When I was that age, I couldn’t afford to eat at restaurants with those ingredients because you needed an expense account. I didn’t want to stop the way I cooked or the ingredients I cooked with, so I started thinking how could I start giving all the elements of that cooking but without the stuffiness and the price.” As it turns out, that kind of frugal mindset can be the mother of tremendous invention. In developing a culinary repertoire, one must be “very creative with very inexpensive ingredients to balance cost of the business. For one pricey dish on the menu, the others have to be low.”
Centeno carried the same dogma to his next and, as it has come to pass, ill-fated venture. It’s well documented that the universe’s ironic sense of kismet—and a Craigslist ad—led him just down the hill from his Echo Park home to his new gig. That people just couldn’t stop drooling over the menu of escabeche, heirloom tomatoes in a pool of corn pudding, chicken accessorized with lavender flower, and the aforementioned paleron is also generally acknowledged. The details that led to discord, however, aren’t as clear. And Centeno would be the last person to reveal them.
His general reticence aside, Centeno is also dealing with a lawsuit, filed the day after his last dinner service at Lot 1. According to court documents, the complaint alleges breach of oral contract and seeks compensatory damages of at least $400,000. Understandably, he’s on self-imposed gag order. He will say this much: “It’s not ever easy leaving something you have put your whole heart and soul into. But there were just too many factors that made it impossible to stay.”
Centeno is much more inclined to think about the future—and we'll gladly go there with him. “At this point all I can do is my own place, because I know exactly what and how I want it done.” (When asked if he’s hard to work with, he quickly replies, “No, I just have standards.”) His ideal concept, which has been percolating for some time now, would consist of two parts under one roof: A casual side focused on his famous bacos (flatbread creations filled like a taco or a gyro with the world’s bounty of ingredients), plus a more formal one called Volver, a name he’s had in mind for ages.
“Volver sort of means ‘to come back.’ It kind of looks French, kind of Spanish…and it rolls off sexy.” It’s actually an apt metaphor for the chef himself. Acquiring financing for the project won't be the hard part. Some people have been waiting years to invest in his talent. Not that Centeno believes the celebrity billing. “I am just someone who is passionate, unbending and not willing to compromise what I do. Some might think to a fault. But, oh well,” he shrugs.
Eager investors and culinary zealots will have to wait just a little longer. Centeno plans to go home to San Antonio for a bit; he hasn’t seen his parents in three years. “I owe them a ton of breakfast, lunch and dinner,” he says. Then he promises to come back to us. Volver, indeed.
Katherine Spiers is a contributing editor for Metromix Los Angeles.
