Since we’re at the tail end of a long and dreary winter, and since I’ve been grumpily attempting to do what no restaurant critic should ever do, which is go on a diet, let me start by noting just one or two of the very minor things that I don’t like about David Chang’s much-debated, much-hyped, and now perpetually mobbed restaurant in the East Village, Momofuku Ssäm Bar. I don’t like paying $8 for bread and butter, even if the butter is made from the milk of organic goats in England. I don’t especially like effete $10 tastings of noble, decidedly un-effete Kentucky ham. I don’t like the fact that a place serving grilled veal sweetbreads and the finest sea urchin from Maine can’t be bothered to serve coffee or tea. But mostly what I don’t like about the newest Momofuku (Chang also operates his first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, around the corner) is the unseemly way in which Chang’s inventive, deeply flavored cooking can reduce even the sturdiest, most jaded eater to weak-kneed paroxysms of glee.
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