Affixed to the restaurant's name, Chilango, is the descriptor Mex-Tex — a linguistic sleight of hand that may at first sound like a grift. Tellingly, will diners still think of stale taco shells, lukewarm lettuce and fluorescently colored cheese?

There is no such scheme at Chilango, nor any promise that the food served here is more sainted than that served north of the (southern) border. For the record, Tex-Mex — a term used to describe American Mexican food — is far more nuanced than the culinary accolades of, say, Taco Bell.

While there is a place for Crunch Wrap Supremes (a staple order for this critic), there's equally a place for food that celebrates this diasporic foodway. And at Chilango, Mexican-born chef Jorge Guzmán has a knack for threading references — masa, vivid salsas and wildly complex moles — into the crevices of staple Tex-Mex.

Consider the Thursday special, the chimichanga ahogada. That the sauce is exemplar — with shades of heat from both guajillo and morita chiles — isn't enough to warrant Mex before Tex, because great Tex-Mex sauces can be refined, too. But this chimichanga swaps chicken for a meaty pork shoulder, smoked until it takes on a texture not unlike fleshy refried beans. The meat is enveloped by a tortilla wrap whose texture announces that it had been deep-fried, stopping short before it starts to weep of grease. There are striations of the queso fresco, and in place of shredded cheese and that unholy scoop of guac is, refreshingly, a small mound of salsa guajillo.

What Guzmán does here — his keen sense of subverting tradition without undermining it — isn't dissimilar to what he's done at the places that built his renown: Surly's Brewer's Table, the pop-up Pollo Pollo al Carbon, and Petite León, where his motley culinary ideas started to blend.

His latest, Chilango (named after the slang demonym for Mexico City natives), takes the idea even further. It offers a tonier location, by the shimmering Bde Maka Ska, in a nearly century-old historic building, offering a space fit for large parties: a front dining room with high ceilings, a long bar and booths lining the back wall that flank a back split-level dining room, where diners can have a quieter meal under a pavilion of tropical plants.

The restaurant offers a more expansive menu, delivering retooled Tex-Mex in spades. It also courts spontaneous return visits, thanks to the published daily specials. On Thursday, you may enjoy the chimichanga, as I did, with gusto. Or you may visit the day before, for the serviceable Wednesday carne guisada — a wrap you can make from long-braised, meltingly soft beef, mole, frijoles (beans) and rice.

I'd travel (within reason) for Guzmán's enchiladas, any day of the week. Two are on the staple menu, and both are stellar: The camote, which resembles a thin wrap flattened by a panini press, is filled with sweet potato foiled by an assertive salsa macha, a type of mole made from dried chiles; the enchiladas verdes is a more familiar-looking analog, the rolled cigar withholding tender chicken, covered in a potent tomatillo sauce.

Yes, you may order other familiar staples, as well. The chile con queso, the soupy refried beans and the fajitas are all fine, but there's ample room to enrich your orders with Mexican-staple dishes. Should you do so, tread cautiously. I'm not sure I'd return for the tacos: The suadero is the better of the two (tender and justly-seasoned the second time I had it) while the fried whitefish (tilapia, upon further investigation) is sodden and uncrisp.

And I'm not sure if the corn esquites is a fair reflection of Guzmán's talents — this one was unusually dry, ceding too much to the Manchego cheese atop it. But his shrimp (and soon to be beet) aguachile will melt doubt, surely. It doesn't pack as much of a punch as the color of the sauce suggests — its creaminess is a virtue, as is gentle cookery of the shrimp.

Sometimes, the best dishes on the menu aren't beholden to anything. Was diablo sauce the right pairing for a shrimp entree? Unclear. Regardless, the depth of the sauce (fortified with an Ancho pepper compound butter, finished with wine) will make your head flutter, and its stifling levels of smoke and spice will cut through the travails of Midwestern small talk. The star of the plate, alas, isn't the shrimp. It's a wedge of panisse fashioned from masa — rich, yet somehow fluffy, too.

Whole fried fish may at first intimidate, but it won't as soon you realize that the brittle yet tenaciously crisp exterior is really just an armor for the sweet flesh, which holds up very well against a salsa cobbled with Maggi seasoning — a staple condiment in many Mexican households, somehow rendered wholly, uniquely new.

The cochinita pibil is a Guzmán signature for the right reasons. Its labor-intensive process, diverging from traditional pibil — a five-day cure, followed by another five-day Yucatecan marinade, then a 24-hour slow cook — softens the meat and intensifies its juices. Then the meat is grilled until the edges uniformly darken and caramelize. Set over a robust black bean purée, with a lone wedge of avocado, this pork is truly a revelation.

With a menu this large, navigating it can be a challenge. Ordering the easygoing dishes, though, won't mean you're any less adventurous (see: Guzmán's achiote-rubbed half chicken, also a signature). It'll just take a few visits to weed out the duds. The gem salad may not move you (leaves too unwieldy, dressing too scant and thick), nor will the smoked wings (anemic-looking, slightly overcooked), nor the hanger steak (beautifully sauced, if slightly chewy even for that cut); but the textbook papas machas might.

Desserts spark less joy. Arroz con leche, or rice pudding, recalled a dull lunchroom pudding cup; the choco taco had the unwieldy chew of a stale, hardened waffle; and a bland pistachio tres leches ate less thrillingly than it looked.

The biggest transgression is price. The narrative driven by Guzmán and fellow chefs — rightfully — is that Mexican food is unfairly seen as cheap. This cannot be further from the truth, if going by the chefs both nationwide and stateside (see: Oro by Nixta), who are stewards for a cuisine boundless in expression.

There are dishes at Chilango where pricing feels more appropriate ($28 for the Cochinita, or even $55 for a whole fish); still, the calculus doesn't add up despite the provenance of the ingredients. Is $26 a fair price for enchiladas even if the scant amount of chicken is a Bell & Evans breed?

It very well could be, depending on your frame of reference.

Chilango

⋆⋆ ½ Recommended

Location: 2730 W. Lake St., Mpls., 612-920-5000, chilangomextex.com

Hours: 5-9:30 p.m. Mon.-Thu., 5-10:30 p.m. Fri.-Sat. (kitchen closes 30 minutes earlier), Sun. bar 11:30 a.m.-8:30 p.m., kitchen 11:30 a.m.-2 p.m. and 5-8 p.m.

Recommended dishes: Augahile, enchilada de camote, enchiladas verdes, cochinita pibil, whole fish, chimichanga, papas machas.

Prices: On the lower end you'll find tacos (two for $14), chips and queso ($10) or guac and salsa ($15). The ceiling is $55, for a whole fish, and entrees range from $24-$32. Pay attention to the menu; beans, rice and tortillas ($5-$7) don't always come with entrees.

Beverages: A wide selection in all arenas: after-dinner sippers ($11-$14); classic and craft cocktails ($13-$15); sparking, white, rose, red, reserve and sherry ($9-$32); beer and a smattering of N/A offerings.

Tip or no tip: 4.95% wellness surcharge is applied, along with a tip line.

Noise level: When the restaurant is 80% full, conversations can be a challenge. Best to take advantage of the terrace during the summer months.

Worth noting: Pay a visit during daylight hours to soak in the elaborate mural by artist Rodrigo Oñate Roco.

What the stars mean:

⋆⋆⋆⋆ Exceptional

⋆⋆⋆ Highly recommended

⋆⋆ Recommended

⋆ Satisfactory

Jon Cheng is the Star Tribune's restaurant critic. Reach him at jon.cheng@startribune.com or follow him on Instagram at @intrepid_glutton.