This restaurant really oversells itself, calling the experience “an unpretentious take on fine-dining”. It’s nothing of the sort. The space is cute enough—housed in an old Chinatown shop-house, the walls are festooned with retro radios, pots and pans, and vintage concert posters. They even host live local music acts.
But fine-dining it is not. Service is well meaning but unpolished (they needed us to repeat our orders a couple of times). The crowd’s an odd mix of Mando-pop crazed teens (it seemed the only topic of dinner conversation) and sweaty tourists, all dressed in t-shirts and shorts.
The food is ambitious but largely falls flat. From the shrimp and grits ($12)—flaccid shrimp and lumpy cornmeal—to the coconut flan ($9), which tastes fine but is hideously plated with disparate elements like peanut cookie crumble, soggy lemongrass poached pear and a lone basil leaf (none of which added anything to the dessert). The only saving grace is that the wine’s cheap (from $9/glass, and you get 15% off that after 9pm on weeknights) and some of the food—like the zataar crusted swordfish belly ($16)—is actually decent and pretty affordable (once you wipe away the nonsensical condiments and toppings).
Think of it as a café: A worthy option if you’re looking for a reprieve from sticky crowded Temple Street, where you can sit with a cool drink. Just don’t go expecting fireworks.
