Evening Edge

Today the cobblestoned streets of Manhattan's Meatpacking District are lined with glossy, overproduced restaurants that attract (as some New Yorkers will tell you with a snort) the "bridge and tunnel crowd." It is a scene Atlanta diners would recognize instantly.

But four years ago, the area was still borderline cool, with a menacing undertow of grunge. Preening new restaurants moved into creepy old warehouses, and their synergy produced a kind of performance art.

Spice Market Online reservations User reviews, info John Kessler writes food features and a column about food and more for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution E-mail John Kessler Recent Kessler columns Small peppers sometimes pack a wallop  Sushi chef resurfaces, with a place of his own  These days, eating is part of TV job         More John Kessler Related: AJC Food & Drink Evening Edge Atlanta Restaurant reviews and search Recipes from Atlanta restaurants Search AJC recipes

One of the most talked-about places at the time was Spice Market, with chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten's interpretation of Southeast Asian street food — satay, fried rice — for a downtown audience. People loved it. People hated it. A controversial three-star review in The New York Times from a critic accused of being too close to Vongerichten only added to its allure. Everyone in New York had to go and see what all the fuss was about.

I happened to be in New York with some friends one evening during Spice Market's heyday. Walking by, I caught sight of the sign — a small placard on a hulking corner building. I told my group that I just wanted to pop my head in the door. I walked up a short flight of stamped metal stairs, reached for the handle to a nondescript door and ...

"Are you on the list?"

A large bouncer with a radio earpiece and a clipboard had wedged himself between me and the door.

"List?" I asked. "Isn't this Spice Market? Isn't it a restaurant?"

"I can't let you in unless your name is on the list," the bouncer informed me flatly.

"I don't have a reservation, if that's what you mean, but I'm just going to poke my head in the door," I continued.

"No," he said, "You're not."

I wouldn't let it go. I just wanted to see the place. I promised I wouldn't make a run for it and order egg rolls. They could escort me in and out — 30 seconds, max.

By this point the bouncer was suggesting he could have me forcibly removed. My friends had gathered at the foot of the stairs and urged me to leave.

Fine. Trailing a black cloud, I left. If this restaurant doesn't want my business, I thought, it'll never get it.

Last year I again found myself in the Meatpacking District. This time I was alone, had a half-hour to kill before dinner nearby and — hello — Spice Market. Hmm.

No bouncer. No velvet rope. A hostess greeted me as soon as I walked in. Uh-oh.

"I just want to look around," I said warily.

"Of course," she said with a smile. "Feel free. Let me know if we can interest you in a cocktail."

Really? OK. Inside, the space was as grand as I had expected but much warmer, with natural wood furniture and rope ladders hanging from the ceiling. It all felt a little "Pirates of the Caribbean" (the ride, not the movie).

I walked around the upstairs. I went downstairs. I used the restroom. I left.

Soon thereafter I heard that Vongerichten had plans to open the first of several satellite Spice Markets in Atlanta. (Others would follow in Istanbul, Turkey, and Doha, Qatar.) I watched as the Sheraton Colony Square was transformed into a black-clad, music-throbbing W Hotel, which opened in March with Spice Market as its marquee tenant.

"Grr," said the unforgiving little voice inside of me. "See if they ever get my business."

The restaurant had barely been open 48 hours before curiosity put the lie to that resolve. A deep urge in my soul made me check it out.

But was I curious about the restaurant itself or curious to see if I would again be denied admission?

Of course, no such thing happened. Not in Atlanta. A doorman even gave me a tour of the lobby before sending me upstairs to Spice Market. A friendly hostess trio ushered me right into the packed bar, where beautiful young women seemed to be spontaneously generating from currents in the air. (This being Atlanta, there were also a fair number of schlubby guys in jeans and golf shirts.) Wooden louvers, brass bells and ropes hung from the ceiling like in New York, giving the space a kind of retro-hip Polynesian vibe.

I had a foofy drink and ate some almonds that tasted like Chinese Five Spice at the bar. I soaked up the scene. I had, despite myself, fun.

I have been back a couple of times — enough to explore the menu a bit and develop a serious crush on the desserts developed by New York's opening pastry chef Pichet Ong. (He now has his own dessert-centric restaurant, P*Ong, in New York.) His Vietnamese coffee tart tastes just like Vietnamese coffee — a dark, dense and bitter ganache with a scoop of condensed milk ice cream on top to make it palatable.

I even took my wife to Spice Market one evening just for dessert. She loved the tart and a mixture of exotic fruits with coconut ice called Thai Jewels. But she quickly tired of the music, the noise, the crush of swank flesh. To her, Spice Market was just another hot new Atlanta scene — always democratic, always an ordeal.

Me, I was thinking this place could use a velvet rope. Thin the crowds. Create a little intrigue. Keep the incipient cool.