Ratha Chau once managed an impressive French restaurant in Manhattan, Fleur de Sel. Mostly, his chops shine through at Kampuchea, where he is chef/owner. The communal tables are set with modish plates and playful jelly jar glasses. Light from candles and chandeliers flickers on orange walls. The bar, awaiting licensing, stands ready to be stocked by this former wine buyer. And the bathroom has the calm vibe of a side altar in some distant Buddhist temple. That’s all great, but we’re here for the food.
Tucking into Chau’s menu, I kept apologizing to myself for not liking it more. As his smiling, attentive staff relentlessly push-polled my companions, chirping, “How great was that?” I wondered why they couldn’t see the answer in my eyes.
The Chopped Jumbo Shrimp Crepe ($9) is a mix of sprouts and shellfish stuffed into a Boston lettuce leaf and dipped in a peanuty fish sauce. The crepe is almost a garnish, but it soaks in all the juices, so I didn’t mind getting messy by scooping it up and scarfing it down.
The Kampuchea ($7), a bánh mì Vietnamese sandwich, left my friend Ryan asking for napkins to sop up the chili mayo that must’ve accidentally spilled into its filling. It must have. No one could want that much chili mayo on anything. So an otherwise appetizing baguette packed with pork, pickled carrots, cucumber and cilantro was a gloppy mess. In a city bursting with good bánh mì, this one looked like it came from the Mekong Applebee’s.
The organic chicken wings ($7) were crisp and nicely seasoned. An order of grilled sweet corn ($6) was also a nice starter. A sprinkle of chili powder, combined with a buttery, coconuty mayonnaise and a squirt of lime perfectly lubricated two cobs of charred kernels. Ryan started sweating while he inhaled his ear, and although he blamed the chili, it was obvious he was working himself into a maize-fueled lather.
Four slices of honey-glazed loin, pickled daikon radishes and cucumbers make up the Berkshire Pork Grill ($10). The giardiniera cut the meat’s sweetness so that a bite of one made me crave a bite of the other. Cuttlefish shows up in an OK salad ($9), barely avoiding vulcanization.
The over-richness of the oxtail stew ($15) meant the limp, toasted baguette couldn’t stand up to this gumbo-y dish. Chilled rice vermicelli ($16) sounded great, but its one-note sourness masked even the splendid Chinese sausage and fried egg on top.
Filet Mignon Katiev ($17) is Chau’s winner. Pho is a bracing soup traditionally consumed in the morning, the Ploughman’s breakfast of Vietnam. Marrow and star anise add depth to beef cooked in water, creating a sweet, spicy, meaty flavor unlike any other. The pleasures of slurping this broth made me want to forgive and forget I ever ordered that sandwich.
The other broths I tried, including the Hanoi Chicken Noodle ($14) made me forget I had forgiven. There was no chicken flavor, no flavor at all. The bird seems to have flown the coop. Likewise, Bwah Moun ($13), a congee allegedly made with chicken broth, was a thin liquid with some grains in it.
Mexico City has tacos al Pastor, Istanbul has mussel carts, New York has hot dogs, Paris has Croque Madams. These soups are southeast Asia’s street fare. You can’t screw with this food unless you want to close your taco stand, sell your hot dog cart or dump your mussels back into the Bosphorus. Even though the starters were passable, Chau has to nail these stews. If he can season the broth and find crusty baguettes, Kampuchea can be an institution. If not, it won’t just be the noodles that are all wet.
Kampuchea Noodle Bar
78 Rivington St. (at Allen St.)
212-529-3901
