There Is No Spoon

Yakitori Boy calls The Matrix to mind — for better and worse.

by Trey Popp

Mark Stehle A FIN LINE: Plated sushi looking pretty at Yakitori Boy, where it's more about the experience than the grub. (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

The elevator doors slid open on the sleek, almost-all-black second floor of Chinatown's new karaoke palace, Yakitori Boy, and suddenly I was back in 1999 and it was The Matrix all over again. Specifically, The Matrix on laserdisc, in a place called an MTV parlor, on the Malaysian side of Borneo.

Let me back up. Borneo may be best known for rain forests and orangutans, but mythical islands have middle classes, too, and Malaysia's wasn't all that different from our own back in 1999. Borneo's city folk liked their entertainment indoors, their TV screens wide and their air conditioned when possible. And it was MTV parlors where all these things came together.

Built to cater to karaoke queens and movie nuts, they were essentially hotels minus the beds: rooms outfitted with a black leather couch, a big TV and a souped-up stereo system within soundproof walls. New to the concept, my companion and I scanned a rack of movies and picked the only English-language title we knew absolutely nothing about. Five minutes later, the lights were low and we were bathing in surround sound. A cat-suited woman named Trinity got ready to kick ass, but she sprang from her feet only to freeze in midair.

My friend and I looked at each other. "There's got to be something wrong with the laserdisc."

It took almost a decade, but the MTV parlor concept has come to Philly with Yakitori Boy, which features about a dozen soundproofed rooms filled with flatscreens and — must be part of the business model — mod black leather couches. There's also a lounge for the hoi polloi and a downstairs dining room fitted out with its own complement of private rooms.

Altogether, the place can accommodate at least 200 people, and when the joint gets jumping around 10 p.m., the vibe is kind of Matrix-y, too: a multi-ethnic soup of twentysomethings swarming beneath shiny cooling ducts hung from high rafters. The bar is also a sing-along spot, and by midnight the queue of publicly inclined crooners can reach 30 or 40.

Yakitori Boy attempts to cater to this vast clientele by way of "japas" — a play on Spanish tapas. Think shortened sushi rolls and small barbecue skewers threaded with everything from chicken to gingko nuts. Food options come by the score, illustrated by garish color photographs on a laminated menu that's an exercise in visual overload.

Unfortunately, the eye candy wasn't too sweet on the tongue. Any kitchen that tries to make this many things for this many people has got a challenge on its hands, and Yakitori Boy doesn't seem up to it. With the exception of the supplemental chef's daily menu (more on that later), just about every plate that came my way was disappointingly bland. Unsurprisingly, given its sheer volume, much of the food had a faintly industrial character.

Aside from reasonably fresh fish, the sushi had nothing going for it. The rice needed more vinegar and the rolls needed more zip. Spicy tuna and California rolls were on par with what you get in convenience-store take-out boxes, and despite the menu's size, there wasn't much to capture the attention of more adventurous sushi lovers.

The cabbage in a plate of pork kimchee tasted so flat that it was hard to imagine it had been pickled at all. A squeeze of lemon wasn't enough to kick up the tang, and it was virtually devoid of spiciness. Chicken teriyaki was more flavorful, but the meat seemed like it had been pre-cooked and reheated. A thin slice of shortrib threaded on a skewer was a little better, but too plain to praise. And while I was glad to discover that the gingko tree's nuts are tastier than the rotting fruits on Philadelphia's sidewalks would suggest, they could have used some kind of garnish or sauce.

That said, the chef's special menu was of another caliber. Dots of delicious ume sauce made raw octopus carpaccio shine with unexpected complexity. A savory egg custard was as light as a cloud — a true delight at $3. The richness of chilled monkfish foie gras was nicely offset by seaweed salad and a fetching pattern of spicy sauces painted on the rim of the bowl. The only misstep was a fan of sliced abalone, which was a tough, flavorless disaster.

To appeal to serious eaters, Yakitori Boy needs apply the care that goes into the chef's specials to the rest of the menu. Karaoke might be able to withstand five tone-deaf soloists for every sing-along star, but restaurant food should hit the right notes every time. As it is, Yakitori's small plates beg the same cinematic analogy as the place's stylish décor and hip nighttime crowd — and for all the merits of The Matrix, it doesn't exactly inspire an appetite.

(t_popp@citypaper.net)

Yakitori Boy

213 N. 11th St., 215-923-8088, yakitoriboy-japas.com

Hours: Open daily, 5 p.m.-2 a.m.

Wheelchair accessible.