Inhaling the redolent fumes in the parking lot of Mordisco Steakhouse, the Doral import known for its oak-fired meats with Venezuelan twists, felt like respiring a three-course meal for my olfactory system. Thick, beefy air wafting above the paved moat circling the restaurant lured us to its crowded entrance like moths to a flame. “Did you make a reservation?” asked one of my companions. I didn’t. I also didn’t expect the Saturday night fever at Mordisco to be this high. I mean it’s a grade above the Longhorns and Outbacks, but clearly I underestimated its popularity.
The sizable space, with its tiered seating areas and horseshoe bar, had an air of familiarity about it, even with a faux yellow tabebuia tree (known as an araguaney in Venezuela) looming over the bottles of booze. “Did this used to be an Applebee’s?” queried the pal while surveying the buzzy room. His speculation was confirmed after a quick address check on Google. A few minutes later, we were led to a corner table, where our harried, though composed, server dutifully spewed out menu recs, including a coconut lemonade ($10) juice so tasty and refreshing, we couldn’t help but order more throughout the course of our meal.
That meal commenced with a ceviche “carnavalero” ($22), an appropriate handle given the funfair of flavors that pirouetted in our yaps courtesy of a leche de tigre comprised of actual leche: suero costeño, to be precise. The sour, tangy fermented milk product was the flavor carousel in the carnavalero, with its chunks of cobia, cherry tomatoes, crispy quinoa and sweet plantain croutons slicked in an ají dulce (sweet pepper) oil.
Butterflied, wood-fired branzino had a skin so crisp it could make a potato chip feel inadequate.
Great as that ceviche was, we came for cooked meats — Mordisco’s kindled cuts done in the “carne en vara” style, that is, slow-roasted over open wood embers. First up was a 14-ounce USDA Prime ribeye ($42), cooked to our liking (medium-rare) and served with our choice of side — grilled Venezuelan cheese ($2 upcharge) — along with a truffle–aji dulce sauce and a house chimichurri. Indeed, what came through in every mordisco, or bite, was a pleasant smokiness.
Mordisco offers “entrée upgrades” so, for an extra $18, we got an 8-ounce picanha thrown on the plate — and let’s just say knives were out fighting for the last piece. The beef, I later came to learn, comes from IBP Trusted Excellence, a brand owned and operated by Tyson Foods. The commodity cuts from this much-criticized industrial beef processor are why, I imagine, steaks at Mordisco are so affordably priced.
But the asador isn’t utilized solely for steak. The branzino ($30), a butterflied, wood-fired beauty with a skin so crisp it could make a potato chip feel inadequate, is what I’d personally come back to Mordisco for. In between dipping morsels into an Andean pil-pil (a peppery emulsion with roasted garlic), we nibbled on hearts of palm in an accompanying salad with fresh tomatoes, cucumber, red onions and crispy quinoa.
That we also got to enjoy the last remaining burnt Basque cheesecake ($18) of the night was the final, gloriously scorched exclamation to our meal, which, BTW, included an 18 percent service charge added to our check. Consider it the one thing at Mordisco that required no wood, flame or asador to leave a mark.
Mordisco Steakhouse, 11030 International Drive, 407-286-0031, mordiscoorlando.com.
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This article appears in Sept. 30-Oct. 6, 2026.
