Wakiya

“More original and exotic than any other Chinese food” and “beautifully presented, it’s as if it is painted on the plate” are among the arrogant promises that Wakiya, the tough-to-get-into restaurant in Ian Schrager’s redesigned Gramercy Park Hotel, asserts on its website. The copy basically sums up all that is right and wrong with the place.

The cuisine, brought to you by Nobu Matsuhisa, who oversees the venture, and his Chinese-food equivalent, chef Yuji Wakiya of Japan, is not the most “original,” but is certainly worthy of praise (and miles better than the eats at that other upscale Chinese spot, the recently closed 66). The restaurant’s nose-in-the-air policies and outrageous pricing, however, threaten to undermine its culinary achievements.

Granted, like the Hudson Cafeteria and other Ian Schrager hotel eateries, Wakiya must cultivate an aura of cool to live up to Schrager’s brand of hotness. Though the aesthetic verges dangerously on ’90s territory, it complements the designer’s latest ode to chic: Ebony tables are separated by blood-red strings, the smell of burning oolong tea hangs in the air. But other measures are just plain off-putting. When I made a reservation, I was told that my party could occupy the table for only two hours. Minding the clock doesn’t fly at $100-plus per person (and the restaurant was half empty on my visits.) When I asked for a doggie bag for those precious vittles, I was told that there are none.

Too bad. I would have enjoyed a second day of Wakiya’s version of Chinese, which stands out from your corner takeout in the ways that Nobu stands out from a run-of-the-mill sushi bar: delicate flavors, sweeping variety and small plates that turn every meal into a tasting menu. The dandified standards are divvied into six sections: “cold,” “soup,” “dim sum,” “hot,” “noodles/rice” and “chin shan” (tea-steamed), and you’re encouraged to dabble.

From the cold selections, a spicy beef salad was less impressive for the tender meat or bracing yuzu sauce than for the eye-opening crunch of celery. The subtle ginger-scallion chicken was poached, the poultry a blank canvas for candylike slivers of ginger, a few vibrant basil leaves and chilis. The only disappointment: The mellow “bang bang chicken”—shredded chicken with sesame oil and seeds—was more of a “knock knock” bird.

Dim sum, while solid, was the weakest link. For instance, a greaseless spring roll was fresh and crunchy, but its bland, cabbage-heavy filling didn’t outshine some rolling-cart rivals.

The best dishes were the more imaginative ones (with the exception of an immaculate Peking duck, the skin, crisp as a potato chip, served separately from the sweet meat). Wakiya reverses the very idea of egg fried rice, stuffing the rice into a wonderfully soft omelette, drizzled with briny XO sauce. Spicy, crunchy “golden sand”—panko bread crumbs and toasted garlic—spread over soft-shell crabs gave the juicy crustaceans an addictive, savory crunch.

The fortune cookies and orange section finales at other Chinese restaurants are a distant memory at Wakiya—the desserts were the best I’ve had at a Chinese restaurant. A Vietnamese coffee affogato was brewed at the table, dripping espresso onto condensed-milk ice cream and coffee crunch. Showier still was the excellent lemon-infused mango pudding, plated atop a three-spouted teapot spewing dry-ice vapor.

The hefty prices demand such fireworks, and Wakiya is a formidable Chinese experience, even if it falls short of its own boastful promises. Delicious? Sure. “More original and exotic than any other”? Not quite.