Restaurant review, Back to the Boom.

For months now, reports of a mysterious retro dining palace have been floating uptown from Wall Street, like rumors of a lost world. Intrepid restaurant anthropologists who made the trek downtown returned with tales of vanished wonders, like caviar spoons carved from mother-of-pearl, and miniature crêpes decked with fluttering flags of gold leaf. There were exotic, rarely glimpsed ingredients on the menu (urfa spice, wilted tetragonia, galangal gelée), and not one but two towering glass wine displays filled with the kind of conspicuous boom-era vintages people can no longer afford to drink. The place took its weird, tongue-twisting name (“It sounds Mongolian,” someone told me) from a mysterious chef no one had ever heard of and who is reputed to be a master of the kind of ancient, half-forgotten French and Asian-fusion techniques that haven’t been seen in this burger-ravaged metropolis since the glory days of Nobu and Jean Georges.

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