It’ll be a cold day in hell when you look to some other city to fulfill your savage
Chinese-food desires.
Or possibly a rainy day on the LES...
Welcome to New York Mission Chinese Food, a slightly underground little den of slow-cooked Szechuan glory by way of San Francisco, opening tomorrow for dinner.
Some background: the people behind this have been slinging smoked-beef-brisket soup noodles to the Golden Gate masses for the past couple years. Now they’re shifting the whole enterprise eastward, where you’ll sit at attention awaiting your kung pao pastrami, slow-cooked pork shoulder and Chinese sausage.
You’ll amble here late at night (it’s open until 2am) or for a casual first date. Look for the unassuming takeout-looking place... the one down that short flight of stairs. Yes, right there. Enter. Ignore the takeout window. Just head down that long, narrow hall until you get to a red-lit box of a room with a handful of two-tops, a small bar (the only place where you can get a reservation) and, oh yeah, a giant paper dragon snaking overhead.
And let’s say you’re on the fence about tacking some thrice-cooked bacon or a soju cocktail onto your tab. Seventy-five cents of everything you order goes to the Food Bank for New York City.
Everyone ought to have a crack at thrice-cooked bacon.
Or possibly a rainy day on the LES...
Welcome to New York Mission Chinese Food, a slightly underground little den of slow-cooked Szechuan glory by way of San Francisco, opening tomorrow for dinner.
Some background: the people behind this have been slinging smoked-beef-brisket soup noodles to the Golden Gate masses for the past couple years. Now they’re shifting the whole enterprise eastward, where you’ll sit at attention awaiting your kung pao pastrami, slow-cooked pork shoulder and Chinese sausage.
You’ll amble here late at night (it’s open until 2am) or for a casual first date. Look for the unassuming takeout-looking place... the one down that short flight of stairs. Yes, right there. Enter. Ignore the takeout window. Just head down that long, narrow hall until you get to a red-lit box of a room with a handful of two-tops, a small bar (the only place where you can get a reservation) and, oh yeah, a giant paper dragon snaking overhead.
And let’s say you’re on the fence about tacking some thrice-cooked bacon or a soju cocktail onto your tab. Seventy-five cents of everything you order goes to the Food Bank for New York City.
Everyone ought to have a crack at thrice-cooked bacon.