Mr. Love is also a steak aficionado, and the beef he serves (good New York strip, a mammoth bone-in double-rib cut called the “Tomahawk Chop”) is expertly chosen and well aged. Most of the other cooking is a mess. The Boursin-stuffed kangaroo carpaccio comes to the table in bedraggled slivers, on stale blue-corn tortilla chips. My rabbit empanada was fine, though I couldn’t tell you whether the meat inside was rabbit or chicken or some errant lizard flattened by a truck outside Waco. I enjoyed my red-deer chop (from New Zealand) despite its industrial crusting of pepper, but the pork tenderloin didn’t benefit from a brackish rubbing of cocoa and coffee, and the wild-boar foreshank was mostly stewed gristle smothered in a dark and viscous puddle of wild-cherry “mojo” sauce. The flan (doused with an orange liqueur called Tuaca) would be this critic’s hesitant choice among the meager selection of desserts, although the chocolate cake isn’t bad, provided you like your chocolate cake spiked with Texas-size amounts of ancho chile.


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