Spice Market--Manhattan

212.675.2322

I have to be honest; I wouldn’t normally go to a restaurant like this. It isn’t so much the price, as Spice Market’s Asian fare is relatively cheap, rather it’s more of the location in the Meat Packing District. I find the image of that area to be so less than authentic that it requires a sort of blurred vision of reality, a delusion of what is actually going on, and to that this restaurant fits the bill perfectly. The women are all tall and done up, though not necessarily beautiful. The men are all wearing designer button down shirts and designer jeans and cologne, a combination that is easy on the eyes, yet still unfathomable. Call it reverse snobbery a la Epstein, I just can’t handle so many cool people at once.

Naturally, to cater to such a faux-heeled crowd, Spice Market does a lot of things that in ordinary circumstances I would consider a good idea. The problem is, the translation from idea to execution is difficult to do in such a culture of mediocrity. For instance, open back uniforms for your female server is, in theory, a sexy, unprecedented move. Given the right circumstances, say a third world country where discrimination based on looks is common place, I see the vision of several ninety-pound Asian girls scooting around with their supple, a-cup breasts spilling over and their jet-black hair tumbling down an exposed nubile back. I bet it would look pretty swell. However, in good ol’ USA, this open shirt policy results in love-handles, back hair, and most unappetizing bacne.

This high-concept sloppy execution is the unofficial motto Spice Market. Our server delivered cocktails, a gin martini and glass of wine, then promptly returned with our $80 bottle of wine. Even I can’t drink that fast. The buss boys dropped in from no where, to change our place mat between course, to add a fork or subtract a vessel, and though in theory this is service I expect from such an acclaimed establishment, it was so clumsy and awkward I couldn’t help but notice there was a small strike force attacking my table. After dinner, when ordering the digestive, Fernet Branca, it turned out that it was “in the wrong place” and the bartender couldn’t find it. Though, from my vantage point, it seemed obvious that the bartender and server had no fucking clue as to what I was talking about, as he looked at just about every dust covered bottle before finding it. Evidently, leaving the Grey-Goose sugar-tini menu wasn’t his forte.

The food, in all of its splendor, sucked. Not to say it sucked, though the shrimp appetizer with dehydrated pineapple was deplorable, in a typical sucky way, but it just didn’t seem to match the idea behind a multi-million dollar fauxury restaurant. It was simple, crude, plain, Asian fare. It’s as though they tried to replicate the disappointment one experiences when dining at Sea in Brooklyn, or at just about any restaurant in Vegas. It was uninspired suckiness, a suckiness born of omission, instead of ambitious commission by an untalented chef.

Of course this dressing down is somewhat moot. I am not the typical Spice Market goer. If it had not been for a well-intentioned gift card from one of my vendors I would have never known of the Spice Market world. The place succeeds, it was full of good-looking simple people who like to stand around and admire each other. They need places like this to complete their saccharine world of superficiality. If it weren’t for Spice Market this scene might seek out and destroy the quality places I like, and then where would I be? More to the point, they’re getting exactly what they want, and who is to criticize that?