King Wok

King Wok, king of the junky Chinese lunch special. Well, not so much king as like second cousin or step uncle or something. Because, when it comes to these hole-in-the-wall, questionable health code Chinese joints, they really are all serfs. And, yes, King Wok did get an A from the health department, but I feel like those inspectors in NYC could be bought off with a gross of fortune cookies and one industrial-sized vat of duck sauce.

So, what can I say about this place? Well, I didn’t die. In fact, I don’t even think it made me in the least bit sick. So it starts off with a check in the plus column. And then paying around six bucks for my chicken with cashew nut with some brown rice was a pretty good deal for this part of town. Even if the restaurant itself looks like a place you might be able to score whatever size bag black tar heroin comes in.

Surprisingly, the food wasn’t terrible. It did, however, involve way too much celery. I hate celery. This dish shouldn’t have it, and it should never be found anywhere near anything. It’s filler. Which I suppose is how they keep their prices low. In other words, the grub wasn’t plentiful, but what was there was totally and completely serviceable Chinese food. It just took a little effort to pick out that fibrous garbage that people swear is good with peanut butter. I’m not a fucking rabbit and I won’t suffer it.

222 Varick St. (at Downing St.)