A fresh start, with Puerto Rican flair
Giovanna Huyke enlivens the menu at Mio
By Tom Sietsema

Sunday, Jan. 1, 2012

"Come look at the pig!"

The invitation to us from Manuel Iguina, the co-owner of Mio, is so enthusiastic that my Friday night date and I don't dare stay seated. So, up and over we go to the open kitchen to see what the fuss is about. It takes three cooks to hoist a windshield-size sheet of stainless steel from oven to counter. They beam with pride at the fruit of their labor, a 60-pound porker from Papa Weaver's Pork in Virginia. Steam rushes from the nose of the mahogany beast; even from feet away, we sense the heat.

A few minutes later, we're back at the table with a thick slab of primal joy on our plates. The roasted pig is a two-part treat: a sail of brittle skin, ruddy from its rub with achiote oil, hovering over a mound of succulent meat that folds at the touch of a fork. The conversation-stopper doesn't need any company, but it arrives with a dark yellow scoop of rice flecked with pigeon peas, spiky balls of fried plantain, and the hot-pepper-and-garlic sauce called ajili mojili.

I've found a new last-meal request.

In probably the best business decision he has made in a long time, Iguina - whose kitchen has seen more top chefs in its five years than "Top Chef" - recently hired an old friend from his native San Juan to restart the restaurant. She's Giovanna Huyke, 54, whose credits include her own cooking show, "La Cocina de Giovanna"; five cookbooks in Spanish; a long-ago eponymous restaurant; and a theater degree from Tulane University in New Orleans (where she made ends meet working at master chef Paul Prudhomme's K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen).

Huyke's arrival is terrific news on multiple fronts. Washington's boy-heavy chef's club could use a female touch. And once you've had a taste of Huyke's cooking, you'll wonder why Puerto Rican food doesn't have more of a presence here.

Let me introduce you to a few splendors of her table. Shrimp glazed with citrus and arranged on a pedestal of mofongo is a good place to start. The pan-fried seafood is red and kicky with cayenne and paprika; the base, a mash of fried ripe plantains, nuggets of salt-cured ham and garlic, is sweet, starchy comfort. A stew of tender scallops and shrimp and soft white beans swells with flavor thanks to the presence of sofrito, the all-purpose Puerto Rican seasoning made with finely chopped onions, peppers, garlic (of course) and culantro, similar to cilantro but even more assertive. ("I was born with sofrito in my nose," jokes the chef.) Spoon beneath the seafood and beans, and you'll discover a layer of scalloped potatoes and onions, which is the way Huyke's grandmother used to make the stew.

Like good chefs everywhere, Huyke knows that we eat first with our eyes. Her dishes are tropical still lifes. Whole fried red snapper, for instance, follows the curve of its plate exactly. Embedded in the skin is a spear of crisp-chewy tostones (fried plantains). Filling out the picture is a mound of lightly creamy slaw. The dance of hot snowy fish, crunchy garnish and cool cabbage is a delight.

While Iguina is lavishing fresh attention on the food he grew up on, most heavily with Puerto Rican Fridays, he has no intention of ignoring Peru, Colombia, Mexico or any other of the countries he has saluted at Mio in the past. "I want this place to be the embassy of Latin America," he says.

That explains the wire basket containing craggy cod fritters, cigar-shaped alcapurrias stuffed with beef, and some of the best empanadas I've had in a long time. Their flaky braided pastry and light ground-beef filling sharpened with onions and cumin will have you and your tablemates wishing there were more in the order. Venezuela is represented by a trio of arepas (topped with tomato, cheese or guacamole), but the white corn cakes are lesser draws.

Think all pollo tastes alike? Huyke's sticky roast chicken, sweet and tangy with rice wine vinegar and lime juice and served with golden fingers of fried yuca, will set you straight and underscore the complexity of what's seemingly simple: The bird's Asian accent, also formed by sweet chili paste and soy sauce, comes from the Chinese and Japanese influences in Peru, from which the chef's former husband hails, Huyke says.

I'd order the ordinary grilled rib-eye again for the chance to sop up its creamy green herb sauce and go another round with the crisp saucer of red beans and arborio rice. Quail stuffed with foie gras tastes out of place, but the appetizer's swipe of zesty black beans and bold tomato sauce has the Caribbean stamped all over it.

Not every dish at Mio is a grand slam, but those that are leave you a little giddier than when you came in, and not just because the pisco sour or mojito told you so.

The dining rooms, three intimate spaces spread across two levels, haven't changed much since the restaurant set sail, but there has been no need to redecorate. Mio's blue palette and branchlike dividers still feel fresh. In the course of re-reviewing it, I never made it into Mio without encountering Iguina, an ebullient master of ceremonies who knows me, but my anonymous food spies inform me that the service is warm and helpful even for those who aren't paid to eat.

"This is like a second marriage for me and the business," says Iguina, looking happier than I've seen him in years. A fresh start for him turns out to be a promising turn of events for diners as well.