On the back of the menu at Frida is a little montage about the Mexican artist for whom the restaurant is named. It explains that Frida Kahlo's paintings, which "reflected on ... her poor health ... miscarriages and numerous operations" were "often characterised by their brutal portrayals of pain". Call me a philistine, but it's not what you want to read about when you're having your tea, is it?
In a token effort to create a Mexican ambience, a sombrero hangs off one chair at each table, a mute challenge to get so trolleyed on margaritas that you won't care that you look like a dork, and the waitresses, all very pleasant, are got up in fancy-dress costumes Mexicans would call "folklorico". But the long room, formerly half of the now-adjoining Portofino, looks like the restaurant in a cookie-cutter American chain of business hotels.
We sat outside because the gas heaters made it warmer than inside, but it was also so dark that we couldn't read the menu without the aid of cellphone torches, including one fetched, with no apparent embarrassment, by the hostess.
In this city there is much more bad Mexican than good. Too many dishes contain the same ingredients tweaked only by the style of the transport mechanism (flour tortilla or corn taco, rolled or folded) and the garnish.
