Sugar and Spice.
We arrived in the neighborhood with 15 minutes to spare. My companion for the evening?my sister?is well-practiced in tricky Meatpacking orienteering. Or so we thought. After spending 10 clueless minutes circling the block, we finally appealed to a bouncer who pointed to a series of draped windows across the street. No sign. Of course.
Having heard all about the grandiosity of theme and decor at Spice Market, I was shocked that a restaurant the size of a parking garage could be so discreet. Once we entered, we found, quite predictably, that the place was not as full as the difficulty I had securing a table suggested. Then again, it would be a challenge to make 12,000 square feet look packed, unless it was being used for mini storage or an underage rave.
Spice Market is spread between two levels: the dining room and bar on the ground floor, a roomy lounge downstairs. That faux den of sin features milky-white cushion-filled nooks closed off by gauzy curtains that suggest privacy, but are transparent enough for sneaky voyeurs. This touch conforms with the name: something exotic and chaotic, like a Far East emporium too large and colorful for the imagination to hold.
The rest of Spice Market, however, as compared to the bazaar in my mind, was rather contained. The decor, replete with restrained repetitions of Asian artifacts, ornate wooden chairs and the kinds of low tables that force a posture of relaxation, evokes the work of an interior decorator who, commissioned by an Asia-obsessed heiress, creates a sort of Polynesian tiki lounge for the rich.
We were seated at one of the very small tables overlooking the sunken lounge, from whence rose a relentless throbbing bass that at times was hypnotic. We looked about, sipping house cocktails. Hers was a blood orange mojito ($11), a smart mixture of blood orange juice, rum and fresh mint; it was the best she's had in the city. I tackled a cloudy tamarind rum punch ($11), funky and tea-colored, with gritty fruit nectar and enough booze to keep Captain Morgan seeing double.
Peering at our neighbors, I observed how the low tables created an awkward circumstance for the waiters and waitresses, who had to bend at the waist to properly serve their patrons. This behavior, by the largely Asian staff serving a white upper-crusty clientele, was an uncomfortable throwback to servitude. I wondered if this was a deliberately cynical touch on the part of the designer, or just a product of my overactive mind.
In theory, Spice Market is quite democratic?a paean of super-chefs Jean Georges Vongerichten and Gray Kunz to Asian street food. Several times throughout our meal, I wondered why critics pounded Vongerichten for 66, his tribute to Chinese takeout, but gush as he tackles the snacks of countries such as India, Vietnam, Thailand and Malaysia. To me, street food is as spontaneous and gritty as it is gratifying and delicious. The dishes at Spice Market had none of the former characteristics, but plenty of the latter. Spiced chicken samosas with cilantro yogurt ($8) were a far cry from the chubby deep-fried pockets that we know. A supple mixture of ground chicken with chopped tomatoes, onions, roasted cumin and fresh cilantro and chive-filled triangles of finely crisp dough more closely resembled spanakopita than samosa. The cilantro yogurt sauce, cut with lime juice and toasted cumin seeds, was cool and irresistible.
Our next starter was shaved tuna, chili tapioca, Asian pear and lime ($11). It's a cold soup of sorts, a shallow bowl of fragrant coconut juice and milk steeped in lemon grass and kaffir lime leaves, dotted with morsels of raw tuna, caviar egg-shaped spicy tapioca pearls and slices of jicama, red pepper and Asian pear. It would be a mistake to call this dish ceviche, since all of the ingredients are combined just before serving, but the effect is similarly nourishing and refreshing.
A simpler but equally thrilling dish was an avocado and radish salad with Chinese mustard and tempura onions ($7.50), a half avocado supporting a cylindrical tower of onion rings, whose hollows held sliced radishes and baby mustard greens. With a flourish, the attentive waiter poured a hot mustard dressing?a mind-blowingly tangy emulsification of mustard powder and oil?into the void. This is the only instance in which I can recall the dressing making the dish.
Whereas the appetizers showcased much of the evening's artistry, the solid skill came through in the humbler entrees. Halibut cha ca la Vong with herb salad ($23) is a Vietnamese-inspired juicy slab of fish under peanut sauce, with rice noodles tossed in fish sauce, vinegar, garlic and chilis, and a no-frills mix of Thai basil, dill and cilantro. The same expertise was present in the char-grilled chicken with kumquats and lemongrass dressing ($17). The simple plate of moist chicken chunks topped with crisp skin and candy-colored kumquat slices was winning and carefree. We also tried the coconut sticky rice steamed in a banana leaf ($2) in place of plain brown or white. It was a super-rich, almost pudding-like side made with fresh coconut milk.
We could have left it at that. But at the waiter's recommendation, I ordered ovaltine kulfi, banana brulee and spiced milk chocolate sauce ($8), a spin on a traditional Indian dessert. Kulfi is a fudgy sweet made of a reduction of goat's milk and cream, served frozen, often by street vendors. It was unappetizing. The banana brulee, a cold banana with a thin sheet of cooked sugar, didn't do much to redeem the bar-shaped dessert either, which struck us as gummy and sodium-rich. Topping the kulfi was caramelized popcorn with Indian digestive spices, though they didn't entice us to want to finish what was on our plate. Although this effort fell flat, our evening at Spice Market showed us, overwhelmingly, that interpretation is our friend.