RESTAURANTS / Max Jacobson : New American Cuisine Comes to Orange County at an Affordable, Populist Price

The new American cuisine is somewhat of a sacred cow with self-styled foodies, who gobble it up at such restaurants as Spago in West Hollywood, Trees in Corona del Mar or Pasadena’s Parkway Grill. But it is not so sacred to the owner of the last establishment, restaurateur Greg Smith.

Two years ago, Smith did what many proponents of American cuisine have only talked about: He made a populist movement out of it, opening a small, laughably inexpensive cafe version of his restaurant on Pasadena’s busy Lake Avenue.

He named his restaurant Crocodile Cafe, after the yuppie symbol found on the Lacoste shirt, and even he could not have predicted the overwhelming response. People crowded at the door at all hours, even 3 in the afternoon, to enjoy his wood-fired designer pizzas, homemade pastas and meats grilled over smoking woods.

Now the inevitable has happened. Smith has expanded the business. Crocodile Cafe in the Brea Marketplace has the same menu and the same good food that made the Pasadena restaurant take off like a Roman candle. Now the big question is, will it play in Orange County? So far the answer appears to be yes.

Cold weather has kept the patio empty, but when a friend and I walk into the cafe for our first meal there, a smiling hostess rushes to open the door for us. Looking up, we see a giant, green vinyl crocodile hanging from a multicolored parachute almost 20 feet up. Shades of Frank Gehry?

We sit on high-tech, black-vinyl chairs at a mock granite table and notice how young the crowd is. Nearly everyone seems to be eating pizza and stealing glances at the outrageous mural, a 30-foot seascape of a crocodile (what else) water skiing.

Our senses are immediately aroused by the scents coming from the Spago-style open kitchen, and as we open the menu, it looks suspiciously familiar. We begin with a half Caesar salad, and a fabulously succulent Anaheim chile stuffed with smoked Jack cheese in a tomatillo salsa. The salsa is a pale green, like the crocodile.

My friend is not eating meat that evening, so he progresses to a vegetable pizza, a complex affair with eggplant, green pepper, red onion, tomato, caramelized garlic and fresh herbs. It looks as if Jackson Pollock has taken up cooking, and it’s one of the best pizzas we have ever tasted. I try the marinated flank steak with cumin-spiked fresh vegetables, and find it as delightfully oaky as a blue-ribbon Chardonnay. I finish it in world-record time.

On a second visit I am joined by my wife, and a different smiling face springs to the door to open it. (The first time we thought it was an accident.) We begin with a misnamed, but entirely reasonable tortilla soup--a gazpacho textured vegetable puree with strips of tortilla on top. The waitress brings two spoons without being asked.

When my wife tells the waitress she is in the mood for spicy pasta, the waitress recommends fettuccine with grilled chicken, roasted Pasilla chile, fresh corn, cilantro, and ancho-chile cream. We both agree it sounds like a bit much, but when it arrives, we fight over it, and I catch my wife hoarding the little bits of fresh corn stuck to the bottom of the dish. And I thought marriage is supposed to be based on trust.

My dish is not as good--an oak-grilled Coho salmon special on a bed of raspberry-vinegared greens that have gotten a bit limp under the fish. And I do not care for the potato pancakes I order on the side. They bear little resemblance to the crisp, deli-style sort I’m used to.

Undaunted, we return for Sunday brunch. My wife has amazingly good fusilli pasta with homemade sausage, tomatoes, and fresh herbs to start, while I munch on a barbecued chicken pizza that is covered with plenty of sweet, pungent sauce. Then she has a blue-corn tostada salad with black beans, served in a bowl so enormous she can only manage about one fifth of it. I can eat only half of my wonderful roast beef sandwich grilled with tomatoes, Jack cheese, arugula and spiced mayonnaise. The waitress brings plastic boxes for the leftovers.

If the Crocodile Cafe misses the mark occasionally, it is probably in the dessert section. Beignets , written up on the wordy menu as “a deep south doughnut delight! Rolled in Maple sugar and served with a chocolate sauce for dipping,” come with brown sugar instead and are too well done. When I ask the waitress where the maple sugar is, she replies “this is our maple sugar.”

A densely rich, devilishly dark slice of chocolate cake looks great, but tastes curiously stale. Far better are soft, chewy brownies and fresh berries with cinnamon-vanilla whipped cream. Those I am happy to eat as often as my doctor will permit me.

Smith is a devoted wine buff, so you can bet your Beamer that the wines he has chosen are of good repute. Chardonnays including William Hill and Stratford, and Cabernet Sauvignons including Fitch Mountain and Clos du Bois are all available by the glass at precisely one-fourth of the reasonable bottle prices. What else would you expect from a populist.

Crocodile Cafe is inexpensive to moderate, and without equal in its price category. Soups and small plates are $1.95 to $5.80; salads are $2.95 to $6.75; sandwiches are $5.25 and $5.95; pasta, pizza and calzone are $5.95 to $7.25; large plates are $7.95 to $8.75.

CROCODILE CAFE

In the Brea Marketplace, 975 E. Birch St., Brea

(714) 529-2233

Open daily from 11 a.m. to 11 p.m., until midnight on weekends

All major cards accepted