Photograph by Martha Williams
It was a cold, rainy Saturday night, and we wanted some comfort food. At the time, I lived in Rhode Island. My girlfriend and I set out for Atwells Avenue on Federal Hill in Providence, a street chock-full of some of the best Italian restaurants in America. Federal Hill was also known as the home of the New England Mafia. The two sometimes commingled: There were restaurants where mob figures had been taken out by a hitman in the middle of the spaghetti course.
The restaurant we had chosen was packed, with a long line outside, and we decided we didn’t want to wait in bad weather.
On the way there, we’d passed a Mexican place that we’d never seen before. From the outside, it looked to be barely more than a hole in the wall. On the way back, I pulled over in front of the restaurant, and we debated whether to give it a try. I was reluctant because of the plainness of the facade. She was hesitant because she was of Mexican descent and disliked Americanized versions of her native cuisine. “Well, judging by the looks,” I said, “it’s either going to be the best Mexican I’ve ever had, or else it’s going to make us sick.”
Our hunger finally won out, and we went inside. The tiny dining area was barely 15 by 15 feet. There were a handful of tables for four. We found the last empty one, ordered, and held our breaths.
After the first few bites, my girlfriend stopped eating. She giggled and, with her big smile, said, “Wow, it tastes just like my grandmother’s food.” When the room began to empty, the young owner/chef walked over, and the three of us began a conversation that eventually turned into a friendship.
Pepe told us he had grown up in a little town in southern Mexico, and had dreamed of coming to the United States to open a restaurant and use his family’s recipes.
Whenever we went there afterward, which was often, Pepe would come over to greet us. He’d suggest dishes to order, usually whatever was the freshest item on the menu. “Try the goat special,” he told us once. “I went to the slaughterhouse at four o’clock this morning so I could pick the best goat.”
His recommendation was spot-on . . . after we’d gotten past the knowledge that the meat we were eating had been walking around only a few hours earlier.
Pepe introduced me to authentic Mexican cuisine. It was my first experience with traditional tacos. It was the first time I’d bitten into the luscious wet masa of tamales. It was the first time I’d tasted the chocolaty spice of mole sauce. His chips were handmade, thick and delicious, with rich and spicy salsa. Those meals set the standard for how I judge Mexican food to this day.
This was long before Yelp and Google reviews, when the internet was still dial-up. I told my editor at Rhode Island Monthly magazine about the place, they published a rave review, and all of a sudden this humble little joint was one of the hot spots of Providence. Pepe eventually expanded the space when a business next door closed; today, Restaurant Mexico Garibaldi bills itself as “Providence’s premier Mexican experience.” I still miss Pepe and his food, but it gives me a warm feeling to know that I stumbled across his restaurant weeks after it opened and had a hand in its success.
Starting a new restaurant is often a fast track down the boulevard of broken dreams. It’s estimated that up to 80 percent of new restaurants fail within the first five years. My favorite local barbecue place just went out of business after less than five years; the owner said it was a combination of high food costs and pandemic hangover.
In order to survive, a new restaurant obviously has to have food that stands out in the crowd, with equally good service and a smart location. There is also no small degree of luck involved. This month, we spotlight our 12 favorite new restaurants. They range from the modest to the grand, but all 12 share those traits. Most importantly, they each have food that will keep you wanting to go back for more.
As Pepe liked to say to us, “Buen provecho!”
This article appears in our October 2024 issue.
