REVIEW: Losing its Mojo?

True to my Microsoft Word, within the past month Fraud hit up the restaurant Mojo thrice times, which means that witch is ripe for review. Not once, not twice, but thrice... OH, BE-have! Had to. Especially since this joint's got nationally televised American Express ads featuring, as pitchfolk, a Tony award winner/purveyor-of-black-mawkishness... Let's go.

Devoted readers of this blog (all two of you) are by now familiar with Fraud's severe allergy to Bourgieness and all things labelled "Grown & Sexy." Why? Because it's B-O-R-I-N-G and T-I-R-E-D, much in the same way that a certain male, urban look is. Well... Sometimes Bourgie is successfully pulled off, as when the Bourgieness of the vision is fully-realized without much hint of pretension or self-consciousness. Got it? And to Mojo, Fraud just has to tip his Kangol hat. Congratulations. Walking into Mojo, one is immediately accosted by some sort of pagan-looking statue--perhaps the patron saint of Grown & Sexy. Fraud was fully prepared to do battle against this false idol but was quickly pacified by his Moroccan influenced, gorgeous purple and mauve surroundings, reminiscent of a much admired pop singer's ruffled attire during a famous game of basketball... Game, Blouses. Or in this case: Game, Purple-and-Mauve, Velvet-Seeming, Ruffled Curtains, Soul-Themed-Eclectic Playlist, and Resplendent Bar... "CHALLENGE'IM"!!

To start, Fraud enjoyed some yummy, creamy grits ($9), the saltiness cut and interestingly sweetened just a touch by some woodland mushrooms. Truth be told (I mean, that's what we do here), the grits were served a little too hot--like, could seriously scold a foot-dragging, cad of a soul singer hot. (Best believe they were kept away from Ms. Fraud.) And of course Fraud tried the mussels ($12), sauteed in... You guessed it: a white wine sauce with cherry tomatoes, garlic, thyme, and lemon for a little citrusy kick. Hey, when it comes down to it they're mussels, and as I've said before you gotta work hard to screw up some mussels. On the other hand, the lobster salad appetizer ($16) was disappointing, somehow managing to make everybody's favorite crustacean less succulent. Fraud didn't think that was possible. All you gotta do is throw that witch in a pot of boiling water with some salt and BAM! Make you wanna slap yo' momma... I'm tellin' you...

For the main courses, Fraud tried the rosemary chicken ($20), resting ever so seductively on a bed of kale and a white bean ragout. A Bourgie but successful twist on fried chicken, the skin was slightly charred and crunchy (without batter) but the meat remained refreshingly moist. Dope. (For a similar but boneless take, try this spot downtown.) The seafood pasta dish--fettuccini with shrimp and shallots in a tomato sauce ($14)--was tasty and indeed light as advertised, and the salmon entree was generously portioned if unspectacular ($26). I mean, it's salmon. Good luck bringing the spectac'.

And yo yo yo! Yo! Don't skip dessert. In fact, go in. The strawberry tiramisu ($7), although a little soggy (shortbread) was delicious. Fraud damn near licked his plate clean even after his Herculean effort to sample as much of the menu as possible. All for y'all, my loyal readers (Mom, Dad).

Now, to the seeming dissonance between title and post...: Mojo's service is friendly if not particularly fast. Methinks Mojo is paring back its ambitions a bit, no doubt a function of making this audacious concept work in Harlem. It seems to be trimming costs everywhere, cutting staff and changing up the beer list. On my last visit, one server worked the entire room and the exciting microbrew offerings of "old" had been largely replaced by familiar corporate brands like Heineken, Corona, Guinness etc. And, disgustingly, finally, Fraud's water tasted like a dirty dish rag. To the management of Mojo: Laundry can't be viewed as a luxury. Wash regularly or replace those dish rags. And to my loyal readers: THROW some money at Mojo, Harlem's flagship restaurant! We can't let that ship go down(town). Tell your peoples. Tell 'em!

Lastly, fellas, do not, and I repeat DO NOT take the jump-off to this joint. Strictly for wifey or those in the running. You won't get out of there for less than $70 unless you go drankless, which is effectively like going wifeyless. The quality of the food rivals downtown fare and, as the wisdom of the ages tells us: You get what you pay for. Oh, and I should add that the waitstaff ain't bad looking. I should definitely add that. One bartender reminded of a young Sally Richardson and the other was some Armenian/Turkish/Cypriot joint with a fat one. Fraud tried devilishly to snap a pic behind wifey's back (of the fat one, not Sally) but was frustrated by the angle. That's how much I care about my readers, y'all. Risking life and limb (literally) to snap a picture when wifey is distracted. DISCLAIMER: As in most Bourgie establishments, it was dark. Fraud bears no liability for inaccurate appraisals of the waitstaff due to Strobelight complications.


Final verdict: TWO enthusiastic THUMBS UP, does down. Does as in deer, son. My dude.

Mojo
185 St. Nicholas Avenue @ the NW corner of 119th (used to be Fraud's favorite bodega, complete with a shit-talking 24/7 Iranian child laborer)
212.280.1924