By contrast with DiFara’s, a much more sociable meal occurred last week–and by “sociable,” I mean there was lots of booze involved. Peter and I finally went to Spice Market. Not “finally” because it’s been open since last February, but finally because we were supposed to go in September, but Peter fell off his bike and couldn’t breathe very deep and looked like he’d gotten in a bar fight. Then we were supposed to go last Wednesday, but the Red Sox won on Tuesday, so Peter had a last-minute date with the teevee.
Spice Market, a John-Georges Vongerichten juggernaut, is all about Asian street food in a harem-fabulous playpen environment. The drool-inducing white-hotness has cooled a little, so we were able on Thursday, after checking the baseball schedule, to make an 11.30pm reservation for that night. Which would make some scenesters cringe in shame, but as that’s actually when we normally eat, we were perfectly happy.
I haven’t been to the Meatpacking District in the evening since it got so out-of-hand cool. I thought the tales about drunk socialites falling in the gutter were just jokes, but in fact, it’s God’s own little joke that the trendiest neighborhood in town is one with cobblestone streets where it’s impossible to walk in your most fabulous stilettos. (I was wearing sensible, stable wedge heels, for the record, and had drunk only one can of Pabst, so no messy pre-dinner sprains for me.)
Roundabout 11pm, we waltzed in to have some drinks. I couldn’t tell if the burly guy in a dark suit by the velvet rope was meant to be a bouncer, or if he was just lurking outside smoking, but he didn’t stop us, even though we’d walked directly over from the Hog Pit BBQ on the opposite corner and everything I was wearing was from the thrift store. Happily for us, there were two bars, one at street level, and another downstairs. I elbowed past the day-traders and women in white fur to get a ginger margarita and a tamarind rum punch, then we stood back to ogle the space.
We knew we were being deeply uncool to ogle, but I couldn’t help marveling–not just at the elaborate Asianate faux-sandalwood curlicues everywhere and the glittery light fixtures, but also at how almost mean-spirited it is to design such a dazzling place in a city where you’re supposed to pretend to not be dazzled at all times. Hell for jaded people: a grand-entrance central staircase down to the basement bar, mysterious little private cabanas that you shouldn’t keep an eye on who’s going in and out, and, whoa, that waitress’s shirt has no back!
Unfortunately, there were some flaws visible even in the murky, opium-den light–namely, all those meatheads in suits. This is another problem with New York–all these people are milling around with too much money and no style, and as soon as some expensive place with serious style opens, they descend upon it, hoping to buy their way into hipness. Oh well–we blocked out the yahoos with a couple more cocktails (Peter, aka “Mr. Drinks on Me,” gave me more than a twenty to cover them this time), including a sensationally yummy blood-orange mojito.
Now you’re probably wondering why we wanted to eat here at all. We’re generally more at ease, socially and financially, in places with fluorescent lights. (I’ve been out of the loop so long that I fell prey to that old girls’ trick of throwing a compliment to get your way: “I love your shirt,” said some chick about my scissor-trimmed leopard-print mesh tee, taking my baffled pause as an opening to push past me to the bar.) But in a city that’s got precious little excellent Thai and Vietnamese cuisine, I’m willing to pay through the nose for really expert, dedicated use of kaffir lime leaves and hot chiles.
And word on the street was that once you get past the waiters in pajamas and the shrieking fashionistas, the food actually kicks ass. Last week in the NY Times, Frank Bruni railed against fusion food in the city’s ritziest restos, and I couldn’t agree more. But allegedly Spice Market’s menu is pretty genuine—I didn’t see foie gras on it anywhere, at least. And it’s not too expensive, though quite a lot more than Sripraphai, the only other source of good Thai food.
The other word on the street is that the service sucks ass. But my feeling was that as long as the food was fantastic, I would be perfectly happy–I’m not one of those New Yorkers who needs to be fawned over and catered to. And actually, the service seemed fine (except we didn’t get a backless-shirt waitress, just some actor-boy in floppy pants).
UNTIL our plates were cleared. Peter and I were sitting back reviewing, after having eaten some lobster summer rolls (the only unremarkable thing, but an inspiration to mix sriracha and mayo), some of the best damn lemongrass soup I’ve ever tasted, a subtle yet savory bowl of ginger noodles and the most insanely succulent short ribs in star anise broth ever. We were quite pleased, and wanted for once not to damage ourselves by eating too much. We nodded at each other, silently agreeing to leave the short ribs and the noodles for later consumption. We would concentrate our remaining strength on dessert. The busboy wandered by, and both of us said “to take home, please” in various ways. But the way the guy stacked up the plates, he seemed more concerned with making sure we didn’t walk off with the chopstick rests than he did with preserving our food to pack up in the kitchen.
The minutes ticked by, and then our waiter confirmed our worst fears. Indeed, those velvety ribs, and those little pea shoots that had been floating in the broth, had all been chucked in the trash. (At this point, I had to admit I loved that child more than the orphan noodles.) And because the kitchen was closed by then, they couldn’t whip up another batch for us to take home.
On either side of our table in the now almost empty restaurant, drunken dudes with tousled hair were recalling yachting tales and singing songs. We sat there, crestfallen, and tried to concentrate on the dessert menu. It was a hollow feeling. Even when they brought us some extra flan-y thing, and explained it was all comped. The warm air had left the room (they must’ve turned off the opium-incense fog machine for the night), and all we had were regrets and bitter espresso. The waiter lamely quipped, “Well, it’s just a reason for you to come back and dine with us again sometime.” This made me want to both cry and snarl, but then I’d had quite a lot to drink by then.
It wasn’t quite as tragic as Tamara having hundreds of dollars in cash pickpocketed, and then regretting that she’d not spent more of the money on oysters the night before. But it will stand out as a great missed moment, like when I didn’t take seconds of that lamb pasta sauce at my ex-boyfriend’s grandmother’s house in Athens. It once again confirmed the lesson I’ve always known, but for some reason occasionally don’t practice: If it tastes good, eat more. Never save it for later.