The Taste of Manta Carlos
By Ricardo Sebastian
Hugging the Manta Carlos coastline is a shore full of sand and every now and then the odd tree. We residents are aware that we live on an island - even if downtown feels as metropolitan as any landlocked place in the world, distant from the crashing waves. But tonight the destination is a different place. The shoreline has another call, or lure, so to speak - one that has been around for several years. I visited it back in the day, to be honest, but my timing then was unfortunate; the place I came to visit did not yet exist and the man that put it there was only beginning to create what would turn out to be one of the things I regret only seeing now, after my seven - year trip abroad. While away, I kept hearing of this place, and now on my first night back here in Manta Carlos I will finally set foot within Wells' Whales Well - Done Steak and Seafood.
I arranged for my dinner with a reservation and a request to talk with some of the staff through e-mail correspondence with the restaurant itself, but I was surprised to find that Karl Robert Harrison Wells, head chef and proprietor, was the one to respond. I found him standing by the oak staircase that led up to the open - air dining area in his trademark black dress shirt, rolled up sleeves, and friendly smile.
A kindly man and a single father, Karl Robert Harrison Wells stood with a bit of youthful charm, as if he hadn't aged from when I last met him years ago. He has a calming presence about him, which extends to his restaurant, as if both he and the place itself were whispering, beckoning. "Come on home," I imagine.
Even before I walk into the restaurant itself I can already see quite the satisfied crowd in a laid - back, relaxed atmosphere amid a classy structure. Soft jazz music plays from speakers I can't quite locate, and as I bring it up to Mr. Wells - who occasionally refers to himself using different parts of his long string of first names - he points my attention to two inconspicuous ferns at the corners of the veranda. I check, and see that there are speakers embedded in the pot, pulsating with the soft humming of piano and string bass.
It's as if the entire restaurant has a tranquility spell of some sort cast on its premises, but I have assurance that no such magic is in place. Warm yellow light mixes with white light from the alternating lights on the ceiling. The result? A dreamlike atmosphere somewhere between the regular feel of normal lighting and the romanticism of dim yellow.
All of this, I notice before I even enter the restaurant. Mr. Wells (because I can never be quite sure what name to use for him) jokingly mocks me on my stupor. "The food's going to get cold," he says, gesturing for me to enter.
"Well, if you let the food get cold, that's not a point in your favor now, is it?" I respond. But he has a point. I take one last glance at the restaurant from outside, looking much like a traditional log cabin except for the large cartoon whale resting at the middle of the roof bearing the name of the restaurant. i step up the stairs and I am fairly sure that he can notice my excitement.
Inside feels entirely different - if outside the feeling was akin to a souped - up cottage, the inside was more comparable to a manor. Or at least it did at first glance. Once inside the main set of doors the wooden paneling gave way to polished marble, as if it were a ballroom. Red carpeting stretched inward to an inviting counter standing in the middle of the room, the kitchen behind it, styled as closely to a residential kitchen as possible. Half of it was visible, and the other half is hidden behind polished oak walls. A small bar is at the right hand side of the restaurant, and there are couches near it, as well as a television. Interestingly, the combination of classy dining fixtures and the casual touches - the couches and the potted ferns at some of the corners to name a few - had the place feeling more like a home that was welcoming a guest rather than a high - society dining scene (which was what I expected).
What catches my interest is the exposed kitchen. When I ask about it, Mr. Wells smiles and says in that calm manner of his: "I like people seeing exactly how what they asked for happens, so I only put up walls to cover half of it. People like it, I like it, everyone's happy. Mostly."
I would pry, but first, I had to sate my appetite. Mr. Wells led me to a windowside table, and I note that almost everything is made of wood. Round tables, of plain, burnished and polished wood large enough for groups of four - 32 plus eight outside - litter the room. Six larger tables, rectangular this time, are beside the walls, meant to accommodate the larger crowds. Out the corner of my eyes I notice a few among the crowd eyeing my company. "You seem to get quite a few looks," I smirk, taking in the surroundings and noticing that while there were large, grill - less windows on this left side, at the back, and at the front, the right side instead had a staircase. Naturally, I bring it up.
"Oh, that. I, uh, live up there. I wasn't lying when I said this place was my home."
It might be that fact which lends the restaurant its relaxing feel. While very much a serious restaurant, I notice that interaction here between staff and customer is more similar to friendly or familial interaction. Mr. Wells heads back to the kitchen, pausing to chat with a few other diners. There behind the counter I watch him as he prepares my order with the help of some other chefs - and the brilliance of the design of the kitchen hits me. I can clearly see exactly what's going on back there, and apparently I'm more than welcome to observe. A lady comes up to the kitchen from the tables to watch, and one of the chefs (I notice everyone in the staff is a chef or at least doubles as one) not doing anything currently talks to her, perhaps on the specifics of what's happening.
Yes, definitely feels like home cooking.
I've written plenty on the place for now, and as my food arrives, it's time to get to the meat of the visit. Will my hopes have been for nothing?
I take a bite out of my tenderloin steak, medium rare. My hopes are still alive, and higher than before; juice oozes out - not too much, but the bit that does come out tastes more of meat than most gravy I've had. The meat's a good shade of pink, and there are no further words to be said. Tasting the food was a mistake. I can't properly word my thoughts right now. Pepper. Sea salt. Thyme. There are probably at least 11 herbs and spices here and I can't identify all of them because they blend too well. Can't be bothered to focus either. Must eat. (Apparently Wells' Whales has a way of making me laconic. Readers may notice that I'm not as eloquent as usual here.)
Another steak comes in. My hubris made me order three different ones as well as a bit of grilled squid. I finish it and the third steak arrives, as if clockwork. Each steak has me even worse than the previous. Sirloin and porterhouse steak - Mr. Wells knows his meat well. And in record time too - I've been timing my stay here and I've only been in for less than thirty minutes, ten of which I spent eating and standing around.
The steaks were too much for me, and now the grilled squid arrives. I'm full; the portions are large and the flavor is rich. I made a motion to stand but I'm surprised by a little boy coming up to me. "What are you doing, mister?" he asks me. Then he looks at my food and runs off to the kitchens.
All of a sudden I'm confronted by a stern Mr. Wells, with the little boy at his leg. "Finish your food, sir," is the command I hear. Everyone is looking at me and giggling - is this something that really happens? I give in and finish the squid. It's surprisingly light.
I would speak of the squid, but it is rather plain in contrast to the steak - intentionally so; a nearby customer says that the last dish is always lighter than everything else. I would ask why but I figured it out before I could - if everything was as heavy as the steaks, I'd be queasy. Instead, I feel satisfied and wanting to go to bed. Again, feels like home.
The food has delivered and gone beyond what I expected. It's a shame however that there aren't many options in terms of dessert - I pick up a peach and mango gelato flambe and wonder how that came about. It comes in around eight minutes after I order it, and after putting it out I dig in. It's great but not too spectacular. I can still speak after it so I can tell.
"Everyone has things they can do. I can do meat. Everything else, uh, not as much."
There was one last thing to try. The bar was there, and now, so was I. The cocktails are good, but again, the quality isn't like the food. A few drinks and they start to taste better though, so I assume correctly that I'm getting tipsy. Before I go over the edge, I pay my bill and step outside.
The whale looks down on me. As proof of how tipsy and full I am I swear it tells me to come again before I leave.
As if I needed to be told that.
By Ricardo Sebastian
Hugging the Manta Carlos coastline is a shore full of sand and every now and then the odd tree. We residents are aware that we live on an island - even if downtown feels as metropolitan as any landlocked place in the world, distant from the crashing waves. But tonight the destination is a different place. The shoreline has another call, or lure, so to speak - one that has been around for several years. I visited it back in the day, to be honest, but my timing then was unfortunate; the place I came to visit did not yet exist and the man that put it there was only beginning to create what would turn out to be one of the things I regret only seeing now, after my seven - year trip abroad. While away, I kept hearing of this place, and now on my first night back here in Manta Carlos I will finally set foot within Wells' Whales Well - Done Steak and Seafood.
I arranged for my dinner with a reservation and a request to talk with some of the staff through e-mail correspondence with the restaurant itself, but I was surprised to find that Karl Robert Harrison Wells, head chef and proprietor, was the one to respond. I found him standing by the oak staircase that led up to the open - air dining area in his trademark black dress shirt, rolled up sleeves, and friendly smile.
A kindly man and a single father, Karl Robert Harrison Wells stood with a bit of youthful charm, as if he hadn't aged from when I last met him years ago. He has a calming presence about him, which extends to his restaurant, as if both he and the place itself were whispering, beckoning. "Come on home," I imagine.
Even before I walk into the restaurant itself I can already see quite the satisfied crowd in a laid - back, relaxed atmosphere amid a classy structure. Soft jazz music plays from speakers I can't quite locate, and as I bring it up to Mr. Wells - who occasionally refers to himself using different parts of his long string of first names - he points my attention to two inconspicuous ferns at the corners of the veranda. I check, and see that there are speakers embedded in the pot, pulsating with the soft humming of piano and string bass.
It's as if the entire restaurant has a tranquility spell of some sort cast on its premises, but I have assurance that no such magic is in place. Warm yellow light mixes with white light from the alternating lights on the ceiling. The result? A dreamlike atmosphere somewhere between the regular feel of normal lighting and the romanticism of dim yellow.
All of this, I notice before I even enter the restaurant. Mr. Wells (because I can never be quite sure what name to use for him) jokingly mocks me on my stupor. "The food's going to get cold," he says, gesturing for me to enter.
"Well, if you let the food get cold, that's not a point in your favor now, is it?" I respond. But he has a point. I take one last glance at the restaurant from outside, looking much like a traditional log cabin except for the large cartoon whale resting at the middle of the roof bearing the name of the restaurant. i step up the stairs and I am fairly sure that he can notice my excitement.
Inside feels entirely different - if outside the feeling was akin to a souped - up cottage, the inside was more comparable to a manor. Or at least it did at first glance. Once inside the main set of doors the wooden paneling gave way to polished marble, as if it were a ballroom. Red carpeting stretched inward to an inviting counter standing in the middle of the room, the kitchen behind it, styled as closely to a residential kitchen as possible. Half of it was visible, and the other half is hidden behind polished oak walls. A small bar is at the right hand side of the restaurant, and there are couches near it, as well as a television. Interestingly, the combination of classy dining fixtures and the casual touches - the couches and the potted ferns at some of the corners to name a few - had the place feeling more like a home that was welcoming a guest rather than a high - society dining scene (which was what I expected).
What catches my interest is the exposed kitchen. When I ask about it, Mr. Wells smiles and says in that calm manner of his: "I like people seeing exactly how what they asked for happens, so I only put up walls to cover half of it. People like it, I like it, everyone's happy. Mostly."
I would pry, but first, I had to sate my appetite. Mr. Wells led me to a windowside table, and I note that almost everything is made of wood. Round tables, of plain, burnished and polished wood large enough for groups of four - 32 plus eight outside - litter the room. Six larger tables, rectangular this time, are beside the walls, meant to accommodate the larger crowds. Out the corner of my eyes I notice a few among the crowd eyeing my company. "You seem to get quite a few looks," I smirk, taking in the surroundings and noticing that while there were large, grill - less windows on this left side, at the back, and at the front, the right side instead had a staircase. Naturally, I bring it up.
"Oh, that. I, uh, live up there. I wasn't lying when I said this place was my home."
It might be that fact which lends the restaurant its relaxing feel. While very much a serious restaurant, I notice that interaction here between staff and customer is more similar to friendly or familial interaction. Mr. Wells heads back to the kitchen, pausing to chat with a few other diners. There behind the counter I watch him as he prepares my order with the help of some other chefs - and the brilliance of the design of the kitchen hits me. I can clearly see exactly what's going on back there, and apparently I'm more than welcome to observe. A lady comes up to the kitchen from the tables to watch, and one of the chefs (I notice everyone in the staff is a chef or at least doubles as one) not doing anything currently talks to her, perhaps on the specifics of what's happening.
Yes, definitely feels like home cooking.
I've written plenty on the place for now, and as my food arrives, it's time to get to the meat of the visit. Will my hopes have been for nothing?
I take a bite out of my tenderloin steak, medium rare. My hopes are still alive, and higher than before; juice oozes out - not too much, but the bit that does come out tastes more of meat than most gravy I've had. The meat's a good shade of pink, and there are no further words to be said. Tasting the food was a mistake. I can't properly word my thoughts right now. Pepper. Sea salt. Thyme. There are probably at least 11 herbs and spices here and I can't identify all of them because they blend too well. Can't be bothered to focus either. Must eat. (Apparently Wells' Whales has a way of making me laconic. Readers may notice that I'm not as eloquent as usual here.)
Another steak comes in. My hubris made me order three different ones as well as a bit of grilled squid. I finish it and the third steak arrives, as if clockwork. Each steak has me even worse than the previous. Sirloin and porterhouse steak - Mr. Wells knows his meat well. And in record time too - I've been timing my stay here and I've only been in for less than thirty minutes, ten of which I spent eating and standing around.
The steaks were too much for me, and now the grilled squid arrives. I'm full; the portions are large and the flavor is rich. I made a motion to stand but I'm surprised by a little boy coming up to me. "What are you doing, mister?" he asks me. Then he looks at my food and runs off to the kitchens.
All of a sudden I'm confronted by a stern Mr. Wells, with the little boy at his leg. "Finish your food, sir," is the command I hear. Everyone is looking at me and giggling - is this something that really happens? I give in and finish the squid. It's surprisingly light.
I would speak of the squid, but it is rather plain in contrast to the steak - intentionally so; a nearby customer says that the last dish is always lighter than everything else. I would ask why but I figured it out before I could - if everything was as heavy as the steaks, I'd be queasy. Instead, I feel satisfied and wanting to go to bed. Again, feels like home.
The food has delivered and gone beyond what I expected. It's a shame however that there aren't many options in terms of dessert - I pick up a peach and mango gelato flambe and wonder how that came about. It comes in around eight minutes after I order it, and after putting it out I dig in. It's great but not too spectacular. I can still speak after it so I can tell.
"Everyone has things they can do. I can do meat. Everything else, uh, not as much."
There was one last thing to try. The bar was there, and now, so was I. The cocktails are good, but again, the quality isn't like the food. A few drinks and they start to taste better though, so I assume correctly that I'm getting tipsy. Before I go over the edge, I pay my bill and step outside.
The whale looks down on me. As proof of how tipsy and full I am I swear it tells me to come again before I leave.
As if I needed to be told that.