The Monterey is the manifestation of what bon vivant trio Stacey Hill, Chad Carey, and Erick Schlather envisioned when they struck out to open a restaurant like home. Where folks can “dig in, talk shit, and smoke cigarettes.” Where the food comes out in the order that it comes out. Have another glass of wine. Have another bottle. Still hungry… more fries. An extra dollop of Sriracha for my garlic anchovy mayo please, and onto my fried chicken shall it be slathered… liberally, and with feeling.
Grilled Cheese Sandwich with Benton’s Bacon, Beef Cheeks, Chicken Liver Pate, Duck Fat Toast & Pickled Pear, and so on and so forth… there is something very elemental about The Monterey, but scratch a bit and you’ll find forethought and high-quality at every level. These are the raw ingredients that shape the whole issue of how we perceive its flavor (or “flava” depending on what you’re referencing), from the aesthetics to the music and ultimately to the drinks and eats.
Yet for all the care that went into its creation, the Monterey seems to get the merit in not being too earnest. Dinner (or brunch, on Sundays) is an experience devoid of the pretentiousness you’d expect to find in such a cool place. And by cool I mean that if the Monterey were a magazine it would cost $16 and be guest-edited by Sofia Coppola.*
I don’t think it’s disingenuous, this attitude of ‘Problem? What problem?’ It’s refreshing actually, even sincere… a simple formula, difficult to achieve, which the Monterey executes with style.
1127 S. St. Mary’s
San Antonio, Texas 78210