Restaurant Review - Dining directions

A sense of place is an important and endearing factor in a restaurant. Restaurants that transport you to a faraway location, or conversely that find their atmospheric roots in their hometown, are generally the ones that influence more than my wallet and my tummy. It’s places with a strong sense of place that most often find their way into my heart.

Imperial Fez is a good example, being the closest thing in town to a fair rendering of the Moroccan experience. The well-worn but still exotic floor-to-ceiling rugs and fabric, as well as the lovingly prepared Moroccan cuisine, give diners an experience that is authentic and engaging.

Next door, the restaurant’s younger sibling, Ibiza, does less well with establishing its personality or rooting it to any one particular influence. The interior of plush, polka-dotted booths and flowing white fabric pops, but from there things get a little muddy. The tapas menu is not quite Spanish, but Middle Eastern dishes don’t set the tone, either. Service, unlike the aloof but steadily assured waiters at Imperial Fez, is wonky. And the food is a mishmash of very good, very garlicky and very forgettable.

If the people I talk to are any indication, the whole of Atlanta is screaming for real Spanish tapas, and no one will oblige. It may well be that in the dictionary under “tapas” the definition will soon read “cultural confusion,” but I am still holding out hope that tapas will get more Spanish and less confused. Some of Ibiza’s most successful dishes are their Spanish-influenced tapas, such as the pure, simple, garlicky sauteed shrimp, or the tuna-stuffed poquillo peppers. The tapas-size portion of paella left me wishing for a full serving of comforting spiced rice and perfect, plump mussels and clams.

But much of the Spain in other dishes is watered down and Americanized. The saffron in the scallops with saffron cream sauce is undetectable, and the plump, super-fresh scallops miss out. One of the owners told our columnist Cliff Bostock that Atlanta wasn’t ready for “real” Spanish cuisine. I’m not sure what that means — the flavors of Spain are not so outrageous. An anchovy here, or an octopus there, have not managed to turn Atlantans off Italian or Japanese food. Seafood, goat cheese, peppers and olive oil are well loved, even in the South.

So it’s disappointing to encounter tabouli that tastes like fridge, in spite of the accompanying smoky, addictive baba ghanoush. An early dish at the restaurant, chicken with mascarpone cheese, was lusciously Spanish, but it has disappeared from the menu. Other dishes would be successful with a lighter hand in the seasoning department. The Spanish omelet suffers from a too-spicy sauce that covers up any flavor in the egg and potato fritter, but leave the sauce off and the dish is bland. Luscious mussels in a creamy sauce are so garlicky that I was literally tasting it for days. No one wants that, no matter how much they love the stuff. Ibiza is an experience that can veer wildly from great to bad depending on what you order and who’s serving you.

Mistakes made at my table on various evenings ranged from very long waits for just about everything to wine refills that were the wrong color, to forgotten dishes and more. The waitresses here are always sweet but often flummoxed, even in an empty room. I got the best service sitting at the bar, particularly from one young woman who, despite being brand new to the job (and having to contend with the owner’s son who flirts incessantly), managed to operate with deft composure.

On the evening’s entertainment calendar is a belly dancer, which makes the husbands at the long tables of coiffed older couples very happy. One gentleman in a starched pink shirt even got up and joined the dancer one recent evening, and it was an embarrassment to behold.

Ibiza also offers hookahs for rent, a trend that simply does not make sense to me outside of its cultural context, which as I’ve stated already does not really exist here. If the wisdom of my years allowed me to smoke (which it doesn’t), I’d be much happier with a good old Marlboro red. But Ibiza’s menu claims that “Hookah smokers have a much more balanced approach to life,” so it’s obvious I’m missing out.

Although I’d take a hookah any day over some of the desserts, particularly the tropical mousse, a dish with a flavor that inspired a comparison to Holiday Inn Express soap from one of my more vocal dinner guests. But hiding on the cold tapas menu is a wonderful dessert: a creamy and sweet fig-and-raisin cheese served with glazed figs.

It’s not hard to have a good time and a good meal at Ibiza. Order seafood. Drink wine by the bottle (glass selections are disappointing). Sit at the bar. If one of the cushy, spotted booths calls to you, order a couple of those bottles of wine so you’ll notice the slow service less. Ibiza may have a confused sense of place, but it’s a place worth sensing if you navigate well.