Poisoned (II) [Food]

When our friend J. mentions an interest in Spice Market — the glitzy, name-brand-chef restaurant squirreled away in Midtown’s new W Hotel — Clyde and I decide to take J. and his adorable wife there for J.’s birthday dinner.

Ignoring the storm clouds brewing on the horizon, we walk the two blocks to the W for our first look inside. The over-designed decor blends day spa earth tones and tall white walls with frenetic electronic projections. It strikes me as something of a mash-up between Thailand’s King Rama IV summer palace and Disney’s Space Mountain.

Subtle signage — so subtle, in fact, we overlook it entirely– points the way to Spice Market’s reclusive second-floor location. Our hike to the entrance — including a trek up the oddly-configured staircase — stokes our hunger. After a man in purple pajamas ushers us to our seats, we settle in for what we hope will be an exotic and memorable meal.

Whenever we eat at Asian-influenced eateries (like, every other day!) we are careful to avoid dishes with mango, as Clyde is allergic to it. One bite of mango or one sip of mango-scented tea can induce painful blotches and make his tongue swell, so we make a point to avoid the succulent fruit.

When we relay our concern with mangoes to our perky server, she nods professionally and says, “None of the dishes on our tasting menu have mango in them, but even so, I will place a note on the order to let the kitchen know about the food allergy concerns at your table.” Nice!

Our server goes on to inform us that Spice Market celebrates East Asian street cuisine. (That’s okay by me, as the real East Asian street cuisine is some of the tastiest on the planet.) Three of us sign up for the tasting menu; J’s wife opts for lemon grass chicken smothered in kumquat sauce.

The dishes on the tasting menu — pepper shrimp surrounded by pineapple, onion rings and radishes with a cilantro dressing, pork satay skewers, chicken with kumquats — are exotic, artfully arranged … and, surprisingly, mediocre. The shrimp is over-salted. The onion ring, apart from its dressing, has little flavor. The pork satay, which should have a peanutty flavor, tastes pretty much like salt port on a stick. The kumquats are aggressively tart — so much so that eating them takes real effort — and they don’t blend well with the flavor of the dry, salty chicken.

We all pretty much agree that there’s nothing here we’d cross the street for — especially when Midtown offers any number of tastier, more reasonably-priced options.

Dessert provides us with the meal’s sole standout: an Ovaltine-laced chocolate mousse graced with Cracker Jacks and caramel syrup. There’s also a fruit and coconut ice cream affair — something called Thai Jewels and Fruit — that’s sweet and cold and tasty. There’s something in, though, that J. can’t recognize, so he asks our server: “What are these white things that look like pasta?”

“Shaved coconut,” she replies. “And there are many other fruits there, too: lychee, mango–“

Across the table from me, Clyde’s eyes grow wide. My heart flip-flops. “Mango? Did you say mango?”

She blinks. “Yes…”

“He’s allergic to mango!” My voice is much louder than I intend it to be, but I’m angry and afraid and concerned and also stressed out from several really bad days at the office. “We told you that to begin with! No mango! No mango! And you bring us a dish laced with mangoes?”

Our server snatches the dish away, apologizing profusely. Meanwhile, Clyde’s mouth starts to tingle; one side of his face is growing numb. He’s trying to downplay the whole affair, but I’m afraid he’s going to do so to his own detriment.

Soon after, a manager appears, dropping off “a mango-free dessert” (a creme bruleé) and a bag of cookies “with our compliments.” Next — after J’s wife makes a visit to the front of the restaurant — the same manager comes by to report that our entire meal has been comped.

It’s a generous gesture — but the fright is too fresh for us to feel relief or enjoyment. We thank the manager and leave.

We are fortunate; Clyde ate just enough mango to have a little tenderness and some swelling, but no serious reaction. Even so: what if J. hadn’t asked his question? What if Clyde had polished off a bowl of the stuff? What then?

Serving someone a food he’s allergic to can kill him. While I appreciate the staff’s obvious concern and sincere apologies after the fact … I wish they had been just as attentive to our earlier, very specific request to avoid bringing mangoes to our table.

We live right next door … but this combination of a food scare and mediocre fare has guaranteed that we will not be dining at the Spice Market again.