Bridges is situated in Chinatown, in the former home of Hop Shing, a restaurant that served affordable, no-frills Guangdong-style dim sum from 1973 until it shuttered during the early months of the pandemic. In 2023, when Lawrence and his business partners took over the space, there was some controversy regarding their application for a liquor license, with neighborhood residents opposed to a new business opening under non-Chinese management. There’s a too-easy metaphor to read into the succession of tenants: the timeworn and workaday replaced by the shiny and exclusive, cheap giving way to pricey, a place by and for an immigrant community replaced by a vaguely European hot spot. But by the time Bridges signed its lease the space had been sitting empty for years, and Lawrence’s kitchen, at least, seems interested in recognizing the history into which it has inserted itself. A dish of smoked-eel dumplings in a deep bronze consommé, the tender meat held inside chewy, near-translucent wrappers, evokes the saline slipperiness of wonton soup. That heap of minced shrimp atop the uni custard has the sesame-and-scallion scent of har gow. A tequila sour, one of the bar’s excellent cocktails, is textbook tart and bright but with an unexpected finishing note of sesame that softens the citrus edge and makes you sit up and take notice.
I had several such eye-opening moments in the course of my meals at Bridges. One came when my table was presented with a dish that the menu self-effacingly calls “cured tuna with mushrooms.” It turned out to be a composed hors d’œuvre of dates, fudgy and sweet, piled with successive layers of black trumpet mushroom; thin-sliced cured onion; and two kinds of cured tuna, supple loin and melting belly. The presentation was so stark and attention-grabbing—six roseate almost-rectangles on a plate—that the conversation at our table snapped into silence. Then a bite—the faceted sweetness and savoriness, the tender squish of it all—shocked us into shouts of delight. And I absolutely cannot stop thinking about a dish of four segments of leg from what must have been a truly enormous crab, which had been cooked just to the edge of firmness over an open grill, so that the crustacean’s sweet flesh absorbed the faintest trace of smoke. They were served nearly unadorned, with barely pickled daikon sliced paper-thin and ribboned onto a metal skewer, plus a bowl of a creamy béarnaise made with salted plum. Complex but not fussy, intelligent without sacrificing deliciousness, the dish embodies the ideal of indulgence through restraint. That level of grace made it even more disappointing to encounter those few dishes that felt discordant: a too-busy pork entrée paired bits of fatty neck and oddly gristly loin against an overwhelmingly offal-tasting sauce; a ghostly skirt of turbot splashed with Pernod was scattered with barely steamed cockles whose violent astringency seemed imported from an entirely different restaurant.
Helen, Help Me!
E-mail your questions about dining, eating, and anything food-related, and Helen may respond in a future newsletter.
Like so many reservations these days, Bridges can be a tough one to land, not least because there always seems to be some chic new fashion collab or downtown film screening celebrating itself by renting the whole place out for the night. But the bar area up front is reserved for walk-ins, with a row of high stools along the counter and a few tables for small groups. The mood is slightly different there, more rakish, less refined, but with its own considerable charms, among them the pleasure of getting to watch the show inside the dining room unfold. The building Bridges occupies is slightly trapezoidal, with walls that narrow inward toward the back of the space. The effect, from the bar, is a bit like the forced perspective of a theatrical stage, the glass-brick wall framing the action like a proscenium. The fancy-people crowd—the woman slinking by in a Chopova Lowena midi skirt, the man air-kissing table to table in white-on-white wide-leg denim—will move on, in time, to the next impossibly in-demand restaurant, to play out the same see-and-be-seen against new scenery. But the eel dumplings, and the grill-perfumed crab, and that comté tart, fairy mushrooms and all, will, for now, blessedly remain. ♦
