La Comedia - Plaza Herrera, Casco Viejo

Comical Cuisine

Let it be told, La Comedia presents an intriguingly unique take on the contemporary Central American dinning experience.

With a Miami palate, modern LED lights and i-pod compatible audio equiptment, La Comedia throws a daring splash of color on to a shadowy corner of Casco Viejo's historical Plaza Herrera.

Sharply dressed waiters amble amidst disparate groups of causal clientele, who recline under suitably beige umbrellas.

One dapper waiter deftly slices at a shish-kebab rotisserie, no doubt preparing the signature house tacos for some lucky diner. I've heard rumors of these tacos.

Before we enter we are greeted by a milieu of six smiling, eager waiters who proceed to usher us through a chaotic pastiche of murals depicting popular Latin American television comedians to a table in front a small corner stage. One of our maitre'd's indicates that shortly we will behold a comedic spectacle that will take place on the stage, and that this table is considered VIP seating to view this event. We graciously decline and seat ourselves at a table a bit closer to the door.

The second in command maitre'd/head waiter, accompanied by our small fleet of busboys, adamantly assures us of the authenticity of the featured Mexican cuisine. The help aid us in getting settled, variously laying our napkins in our laps, adjusting our wine glasses, and presenting us each with a weighty hardcover menu. Impressive.

Opening the menu one is immediately struck by the realization that every item listed carries a price so severely and absurdly exaggerated that even we, seasoned foodies, are completely taken aback.

A clown pesters a nearby table, occupied by a family of truly elephantine proportions who giggle at the clown giggling, while each of them grovels and hoovers at the plates before them. This is the only other occupied table in the restaurant.

In the menu, try as I might, I cannot find the fabled tacos. There are thirty-two dollar steaks, nine-dollar salads, and a slew of other plates, all basically consisting of the same ingredients arranged differently. We order drinks and keep perusing. The fish fillet caught my eye, Panama offers great fresh fish, but it cost twenty-seven dollars and I would rather buy one tomorrow at the fish market for two (dollars).

The absurdity of it all drives us to order two of the downright cheapest items on the menu: the tacos (which, interestingly enough, were not listed but had to be clandestinely requested), and a combination dip-platter consisting of canned beans, common farm cheese (heated), and over-salted guacamole, all this garnished with a platter of elongated, oily, paper-thin corn chips.

We prod our food, attempting to polish off the farm cheese before it coagulates into rubber. The comedy show gets underway with a shriek from a squat little man dressed in lederhosen hiked up above his belly button. A second character joins the first and the goofy duo - both resembling your quintessential homely, androgynous village idiot - begin bob and hop about, dancing to a particularly obnoxious music track from an unidentifiable genre. Occasional simian squeals punctuate this performance, a kind of perverse, self-congratulatory cheerleading.

We feel insulted and violated.

Not only is the price point for this absurd endeavor twice the living wage of the average Panamanian, but to dine here is to bear witness to one of the most painfully idiotic spectacles in recent memory.

Indeed, one is hard pressed to imagine a more ridiculous scenario for a restaurant. La Comedia, indeed, a joke in all respects.