Chew Man Chu

Did we really need to rediscover our inner chow mein?

I didn't think so. After all, who ever thought we'd see that bland bomb of Americanized-ethnic cooking in a new restaurant - it's so mid-20th century. But just when I thought we'd arrived in a new era of sophistication in our approach to international flavors, embracing authenticity instead of hosing it down, along comes the unfortunately named Chew Man Chu, Marty Grims' campy purple wok-bar in Symphony House.

This pan-Asian eatery not only distances itself from the apparently intimidating flavors of nearby Chinatown ("very ethnic . . . hard to understand for part of the Caucasian market," Grims has been told), it does so with cliched style, and enough lacquered sweetness to make your teeth ache.

The honey chicken, for example, is essentially an extra-tame General Tso's, its crisp poultry puffs glistening in a mint-flecked glaze. The thick slabs of satay weren't just overcooked, their marinade was slightly out of sync - without the typical curry, it tasted like chicken-flavored coconut-peanut pie. And why does the miso ramen soup have a sweet and tangy resemblance to the restaurant's hot and sour soup? The culinary confusion here is rife.

Chew Man Chu's chow mein, meanwhile, is an ode to bland nostalgia: it lands on our table - splat! - like a meteor of stir-fried chicken wrapped in the crispy veil of a giant egg-roll wrapper. "How clever!" I think as the waitress flips it over and cracks the wrapper apart. But when I taste the filling, I discover a white glop of chicken and celery so tasteless, it's actually authentic 1950s-style Chinese American fare.

The chance for an ironic tweak of a Chinese American classic here is lost, and the message is convoluted - even misguided for the sake of artifice. How else to explain the image of Puyi (China's "Last Emperor") so prominently displayed in Warhol-esque colors as the restaurant's logo? To Grims' team, the bespectacled Puyi in dapper Western garb was simply a catchy design element and symbol of East-West fusion. To many Chinese, though, he was the ultimate sellout of their national identity, a puppet of the Japanese who embodied China's emasculation and the end of its grand dynasty.

That about sums up the cooking here, too, which was so out of register with any genuine Asian flavors I've had that, by comparison, it makes P.F. Chang's taste like Susanna Foo.