La Vida Nueva

The first time I visited Che was by accident. A friend had promised some of the city's finest sangria at Third Street's Vinga, but when we arrived, we discovered that Vinga was no more, and Che had risen to take its place. On the menu: Nuevo Latino, as can be found at much-celebrated Patria in that great bastion of Latin culture, New York City. It all just seemed so ... urban, so hip. When I returned, I decided, I would need some special guests, fellow diners who would appreciate just how stylish young Che was striving to be.

Of course, I immediately thought of Karen and Evan, a couple so right on the cutting edge of life in this city that they had, in fact, attended Che's opening party (sangria, midori margaritas, a pleasantly eclectic crowd). And of course I had to invite Michelle, who, though likewise chic, is perhaps better known for her oenophilic tendencies and strikingly Uma Thurman-like visage.

We were all quite psyched about our night on the town as we rolled through the vast, highway-like corridors of eastern SOMA in search of parking. To make things even more interesting, we each decided to take on a mission. Mine, of course, was to review Che, while Evan volunteered to find out if the place was indeed named after the famed revolutionary-turned-pop-icon. Michelle was charged with eating yucca, plus making it through an entire dinner without a single glass of red wine (a sacrifice that, according to one rumor, she hasn't made since the tender age of eight). As for Karen, well, she volunteered for the most improbable deed of all: to find an exquisitely flavorful South American cocktail, then recount a pleasant anecdote about a former neighbor who hailed from the same country as that drink (okay, maybe we made that one up after it was accomplished, but the feat was impressive nonetheless).

After guiding our fine selves through a gorgeously wrought revolving door, through an aura of soft Latin music, mellowish, yellow lighting and into a comfortably cushioned booth, we plunged right into things with our first pitcher of sangria ($12). If you liked the sangria at Vinga, you'll be happy to know the recipe hasn't changed at Che -- red wine, triple sec, brandy, fruit, a splash of 7-Up, and, to keep things interesting, cinnamon. It proved a smooth, sophisticated sangria, according to Michelle; a bit wine coolerish, said Evan, but still quite fabulous, added Karen, since it did contain alcohol. Me -- well, I found it a somewhat coy sangria, a bit timid, but certainly appealing, and if nothing else a sangria that can be discussed and analyzed at great length.

As we awaited our primeros Evan fulfilled his mission with stunning boldness -- indeed, our waitress explained, the place is named after that Che, or at least sort of, though we did get the impression it isn't some kind of red pinko commie eatery (not that there would be anything wrong with a Restaurante de la Revolucion). With that settled, our introduction to Nuevo Latino began with empanadas of duck confit ($8) -- small, savory pastries served with chipotle mole and a hearty, roasted corn puree.

The sopa "feijoada" -- black bean soup with smoked pork and a chile-mango/avocado drizzle ($6) -- was likewise hearty, though not as memorable as it could have been given the numerous ingredients, while the ceviche tasting ($10) epitomized both Che's daring and the few snags that have yet to be worked out. The Honduran part of the dish (spicy tuna and coconut) was a bit tame, while the Peruvian (octopus, mussels, squid, and potatoes in a watery black marinade) just plain fell flat, cursed as it was by the odd aftertaste you'd expect from a black marinade. But the traditional ceviche (gulf prawns and bay scallops in tomato and lime juice) reminded us all of just how spectacular lime-cured seafood can be -- so exquisitely tangy that, if I go back, I'll request a full portion and forgo the other two versions.

The wait for segundos gave us an opportunity to order more cocktails, praise the Lord. Though the bartender should have been flogged for the terrible margarita de casa ($5) I sipped and then abandoned, he or she found redemption in Karen's caipirinha ("the Brazilian national drink," $7) -- a deceptively potent blend of Brazilian sugar cane liquor and lime juice. Gorgeously citrusy, the drink reminded Karen of her Brazilian former neighbor, who used to spend hot afternoons sipping caipirinhas on his porch, his head rolling with splendid intoxication. Michelle stopped eyeing the wine list and volunteered to help Karen with her drink.

I knew Che would finish strongly the instant our entrees arrived. As it was set before me, the borego -- braised lamb shank over white arepa ($16) -- exuded the most heavenly scent I've come across in some time, the meat tender enough to be cut with a fork, bathed in a rich, almost gravy-like red wine and banana sauce. The pescado -- local sea bass ($17) -- was also brilliantly done, and came with a complex, equally well-prepared assortment of sides: pasilla chile and bacon mashed potatoes, tomato-tequila relish, and a splendid pumpkin-seed pesto.