A strange little man hands you your menu and, barely above a whisper, asks you if you’d like something to drink. This same man turns on his heels and swishes away. The menu he hands you is filled with fake duck, fake chicken and other tofu delights. The little man returns with your soda and places it on your table with a delicate clink. He seems to be the only person in the whole place. He may be from another planet–or an underdeveloped South East Asian country. The whole place is just a little delicate. Luckily the fake duck tastes like duck–with crispy skin and all. It’s honestly good stuff. So what if the place is a little sterile and quiet, even Mr. Hipster needs to get out his hacky sack and Phish tapes every once in a while and join the unwashed hippies in veggie land. [MF]
888 8th Ave.