257 Sixth Avenue

212-645-0193

By John Mariani

         The revival of interest in Cantonese cuisine, which was once Chinatown’s staple before Sichuan, Hunan and other regional food cultures became  more popular, has brought freshness and creativity to this more delicate style of cooking that emphasizes delicacy and subtlety over heat and spice. The Cantonese favor steaming and roasting along with quick stir-frying, and, of course, they are the masters of dim sum.

         That this shift is occurring outside of Chinatown is encouraging, and Wilson Tang, who had previously brought back to life Chinatown’s oldest restaurant, Nom Wah Tea Parlor, has brought the cuisine to SoHo as Cha Cha Tang, beginning as a pop-up last year then replacing a very fine American restaurant named Hancock. His partner was Hancock’s owner, John McDonald, who also runs  Lure Fishbar, Bowery Meat Co. and  Bar Mercer.

         The name Cha Cha Tang is a pun on cha chaan teng  (“tea restaurant”), a kind of Hong Kong diner. But the premises of this New York space will remind you not at all of a diner but of a sophisticated but unpretentious dining room done all in red with pink and red  tablecloths. Unfortunately the lighting is too low to see the beauty of Chef Donon Wong’s lovely food, and I’m heartbroken that  they got rid of a marvelous painted mural that mirrored the dining room itself.

          You may begin with any of 13 dim sum, including pork potstickers with tangy-sweet pineapple salsa, and pineapple chips;. Sweet and sour sui mai and excellent crystal shrimp dumplings hot with chili oil are both recommended. The most exciting was a caviar canapé crispy scallion pancake with crème fraîche and Black Diamond osetra caviar from Louisiana.  The “Original Egg Roll” (whatever that means) is an egg  crêpe  wrapped with Napa cabbage, pork, shrimp and carrots with a sweet-and-sour plum sauce.

         I don’t know the last time I actually enjoyed wonton soup outside of its coming as an option with a take-out order, because it’s usually so bland, but Wong’s had a delicious broth, its flavors boosted by delicate lobster wontons, ham and peas and a shot of chili oil.
         One of the specialties here is whole Cantonese roasted duck, which differs from Peking duck by being marinated in five-spice powder, licorice root and ginger, and given a glaze of red  vinegar that lessens to sweetness. I was amazed that the  wrapping pancakes were so thin they were translucent. They only make so many ducks each evening, so call ahead to reserve. It easily serves four, and, by the way, the duck is $115 during the week, but as part of a “Sunday Family Roast,” it’s only $88.
         I can’t fault anything about the large, impeccably cooked filet mignon with an intense black pepper sauce, broccoli di rabe, blistered peppers except to say it was unexpected on a Chinese menu.
         I am happy, though, that the desserts derive largely from the West. There are two sweets: a sumptuous French toast wit jube and yuzu lemon curd was called “Yin Yanh Hong Kong.” The other is a miso and caramel apple ice  cream sundae with a walnut streusel and basil.
         I was sorry to see Hancock go but am delighted that Cha Cha Tang has taken its place with such authority behind it, as I expected from McDonald and applaud from Tang and Wong.

Prices for dim sum $13-$22; small plates $13-$16; main dishes $35-$115.

Open for dinner nightly.

    The couple were ushered by doormen through the revolving doors and into the foyer, facing a long corridor, with a restaurant on the left and the reception desk on the right.  There was another corridor of very expensive boutiques, none of them with customers, and at the end another foyer that led to the Hemingway Bar, (below) which the author boasted he’d liberated when the Allies entered Paris. It was closed, but David said, “I’d like to see the inside and drink a toast to Hemingway. My favorite author. Let’s come back this evening.”
         “Hey, what do you think about doing a tour kind of like ‘following in the footsteps of Hemingway?’ I love his memoir A Moveable Feast, and we can pick up a copy here and go to all the important spots he mentions.” David said he thought that was a very good proposal.
        As they left the Ritz, Katie asked the concierge if there’d been any update on  the hotel evacuations, but he said he knew nothing more.
         “And no incidents here in the Ritz?” she asked.
         “No, thank God, nothing,” he said, making the sign of the cross.
         By noontime the two Americans were getting hungry again but they walked a good deal longer, up to the flamboyant Beaux Arts Opéra and on to Place Madeleine. David noted they, too, could use a good scrubbing.
      “I remember when I came here in college, we didn’t have cell phones or e-mail,” remarked Katie, “so all the students used to line up at the American Express office over there and wait while an attendant flipped through hundreds of those blue air mail letters that were arranged alphabetically. If you were homesick, that’s where you’d spend every morning, waiting to hear from friends and families back in the States.”
         “Sounds like a great place to meet American girls.”
         By one o’clock they were ravenous, and Katie used her guidebook to look for restaurants in that neighborhood, which was at a crux of the 1^st, 8^th and 9^th arrondissements.
         “What do you feel like eating?” she asked David.
         “Anything you want. I love French food.” In fact, as a police detective David had had occasion to eat at many of New York’s best French restaurants, often accompanying Mayor Rudy Giuliani, whom he once admired then came to despise when his ego surpassed his prowess as a prosecutor.  
         The couple had decided that at some point on their vacation they’d book a table at one of the top three-star restaurants in Paris; the rest of the time they’d frequent bistros and brasseries.
         “This place looks nice, and it’s right on the next block,” said Katie, pointing to a listing for Tante Louse on  Rue Bossy. David assented with a shrug and within a two minutes’ walk they arrived at the cheery-looking bistro with red façade and green awning. Inside it was typical of the Art Déco bistros that opened before the war, with stained glass, wall sconces and wrought ironwork. The place was about half full so the waiter said they could sit outside or in. They chose outside so as to watch the wonderful passing parade of Parisians and foreigners.
         David felt like a child in not being able to read much beyond “coq au vin” and “steak frites,” both of which he was hungry for, but Katie made it easy for him by suggesting he have one and she the other, along with appetizers of asparagus with chopped olives and cylinders of celery filled with crabmeat.
         “Is it— whaddaya call it, ‘goash?’— to order the house wine in a place like this?” asked David.
         “Apparently not,” said Katie. “Half the tables here have carafes on them.”
         The meal was wonderful, and David commented on the quality of the French fried potatoes. They shared a caramel-glazed apple tart and had coffee.
         “I’m getting knocked out,” said David. “Damn jetlag’s kicking in.”
         “Me, too. Maybe we should head back to the hotel, see what the TV is saying and take a nap. The twilight should still be beautiful around five PM.”
          Back at the Hôtel Juliana, Katie and David went to their rooms and agreed to meet back downstairs at five. Katie tossed her scarf on the chair and lay down on the bed, clicking on the TV. After a few minutes of sports news, an announcer appeared and reported that police, in agreement with the health officials, felt strongly that the three incidents were related, not coincidental, and that more than 200 people had been evacuated to hospitals, along with scores of hotel staff. The hotels themselves were shuttered, and the screen showed health workers in yellow HAZMAT suits going into the buildings.
         The director manager of the de la Reine expressed shock at what had occurred, swearing that his staff took all precautions every day to prevent any contamination. The announcer then turned to a guest on the set who was a specialist in infectious diseases. He asked her what could possibly have caused such havoc to occur at three different locations. The physician, whose name was Judith Baer, answered that she’d never seen anything like this and there had been no occurrence of widespread contagion like this since the so-called Spanish Flu of 1918 (below), which killed millions of Europeans, including 300,000 French people. She explained that it would seem to be a virus because of the suddenness with which people got so sick, though she could not rule out a bacterial infection. For the latter, blood work would have to be undertaken to see if bacterial cultures grew, noting that bacteria can be fought with antibiotics but that viral infections are up to the human antibodies to battle with. Not knowing what kind of virus or bacteria this was, there was little the hospitals could do decisively, short of putting everyone on cautionary antibiotics.
         The announcer asked if the occurrences were likely to appear elsewhere in Paris. The physician shook her head and said she had no way of knowing. This was all too new, and, not knowing the source of the contamination, no one could predict its being contained. She also said that de-contamination units were being sent to the three hotels to begin immediate work on sanitizing the interiors, which she said was a mammoth task because every square inch of these large buildings would have to be treated. All clothes and suitcases of the guests would have to be burned, as would all bedroom sheets and pillows and all restaurant linens. That could take weeks, even months to achieve.
         Katie glanced at her wardrobe closet, suitcase and the plane tickets on her desk, wondering if she and David should leave Paris immediately or see if there were further developments the next day. She then realized  there weren’t any night flights back to New York, so they were going to have to stay over and make a decision in the morning. She even thought maybe she and David should not go out that night.
         Katie lay back on her pillow and dozed off within moments into a deep sleep induced half by the wine at lunch and half by jetlag. At some point her cell phone rang, but at first she seemed confused by the sound then wondered who would be calling her in Paris.
         “Hey, you okay?” said a man’s voice on the other end.
         Katie’s head was still fuzzy, so she answered, “Who’s this?”
         “It’s Alan. What’s going on?”
         Katie shook her head and realized it was her editor at McClure’s, Alan Dobell, with whom she’d worked for years.
         Katie looked at her watch, seeing it was 4:15 in the afternoon.
        “Alan, what time is it in New York?”
        “Quarter after eleven,” he said, then spoke rapidly. “Hey what the hell is happening over there in Paris? CNN is reporting that three of the big luxury hotels’ guests are all going to the hospital with a deadly illness?”
        Katie gathered her composure and said, “Well, I don’t know if anyone’s died yet, but yeah, three hotels got hit with some flu or sickness that attacked everybody in the middle of the night and everyone woke up very sick. We saw the action going on at two of the hotels this morning.”
        “They also say everyone’s baffled and they interviewed some American doctor just now who said it could be the start of a pandemic.”
        “I didn’t hear that. Everyone’s okay in my hotel, so far.”
        “And you were out on the streets and didn’t see people keeling over?”
        Katie knew that Alan’s flair for the dramatic was the way he snooped out a possible story. She also sensed what was coming next.
        “So, Katie, you think there’s a story there? I mean, the papers and networks will be all over this, so I don’t know that a monthly magazine can make more of it than whatever it becomes. But I’ve just got a hunch this is a story that’s not just going to peter out and may need an investigative reporter to follow the threads.”
        “You mean me, right?”
        “Well, you’re already over there.”
        “Yes, on my vacation, Alan, although it’s crossed my mind to go back to the U.S. if this thing spreads.”
        “Understood, but if you decide not to, I’ll assign you and pay all your expenses at least for the next few days.”
        “I assumed you would, but listen, Alan, if I do decide to dig into this story, you’ve got to agree to add days onto the paid vacation time I’ll be missing. I’ve still got ten days left.”
        “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just snoop around. Maybe it’s too local for us. Maybe the thing disappears in a few days. I’ve just got a hunch it won’t. and if that’s the case, what’s behind the story?”
        Katie sighed, stayed quiet for a moment, then, with her own reporter’s curiosity rising, said, “All right, Alan, I’ll see what I can find out.”
        “And you speak French, right?”
        “Yes, I speak French.”       
        “Oh, and please don’t tell me you’re going to need David Greco to fly over and help you with this story, if one even exists.”
        Alan had always balked at David’s joining Katie on assignments, and Katie and David even agreed to pay their own way on stories she came up with but that Alan had not initially warmed to. But Alan had to admit that David had been of invaluable help on stories that so far had been well-received blockbusters that sold copies of the magazines. And he knew that if David hadn’t been along, Katie might never have survived those investigations.
        “Don’t worry, Alan. You won’t have to send David over because he’s already here in Paris.”
        “What’s he doing with you in Paris?”
        Katie explained the reason and reminded her editor again that she was on vacation.
        “So, what, he’s going to follow you around on this story?”
        “I assume so. I’ll ask him to pay his own way.”
        “Fair enough,” said Alan. “Look, I’m not trying to cut corners, Katie, but you know that since 9/11 the ads for the magazine have been down big time. I got the publisher breathing down my neck to keep costs in line. I can’t pay David’s hotel bills, but if you keep the meal expenses down I won’t ask you to get separate checks.  And if David turns out to be of help the way he was in the past, he’ll of course get a stipend, fair enough?”   
        “Fair enough,” said Katie.   
        “Good girl.”
        “You know I hate when you say that, Alan.”   
        “Sorry, pretend I didn’t. So, I’ll be here at the office till seven, or you can call me tomorrow if you get anything worthwhile.”   
        Katie hung up, flopped back on her pillow and saw that she had to meet David in less than half an hour. What she really wanted to do was go back to sleep.