P.F. Chang's China Bistro
6741 Kingston Pike
Knoxville, TN
503-9640
by Connie Seuer
Wednesday. 8 p.m. Wading through throngs of sad-strung faces to a harried hostess stand, I inquire, "What's the wait?" An attractive brunette yells her reply above stereo, clinking glasses, and chatter. "It's about an hour and a half. Is that OK?" The question isn't tacked on as an apology. She's dead serious. "Ahh, no. That's not OK."
Sunday. 4:30 p.m. I call for reservations. "We don't take reservations," the hostess counters. "We offer call-ahead seating. But the book's full until 8:30 p.m." We review the concept of call-ahead seating. I'm incredulous. "You mean to tell me that if I 'call-ahead' then you'll promise to let me eat 40 minutes from the time I arrive?"
"Yeah, that's how it works. But all of our 8:30 slots just filled. I've got a 9 o'clock opening. You'll be eating by 9:40." I politely decline. Heinrich, privy to my end of the conversation, mutters, "What is it with this place?"
That same Sunday. 4:35 p.m.. Over this call-ahead crap, we drive full-speed to Chang's. We're eating there. Tonight, damnit.
5:30 p.m. Our pal P.F. can seat us—drumroll—in just forty minutes. We stake a claim on one of five teak benches located outside, lucking into a swatch of shade. We wait. Order some water. Wait. Look over the menu. Wait. Talk about our weekend. Wait. And wait some more.
6:20 p.m. We receive summons to our oft-imagined table.
6:21 p.m. A silent man delivers water and Heinrich's Sierra Nevada Pale Ale ($3.75). At this point things begin to move quickly. For a brief period, time blurs.
Presenting P.F. Chang's table sauces—house hot mustard and chili sauce, soy sauce, chili oil, and rice wine vinegar—our waiter doles the respective ingredients into a small ramekin, announcing that, in the Chang tradition, he's creating our very own sauce. The five strong flavors, each vying for attention, remind us of Suicides ordered from a skating rink soda counter—more interesting in theory than in reality. We blink. Our Red-Sauced Wontons ($5.95) and Vegetable Dumplings ($4.95) appear on the table.
Did I mention things moving quickly? After eating a single wonton and dumpling, a different waiter, appears. "Are you done with your appetizers?" We both look at him, again incredulous. "Ahh, no. We're not done."
The wontons—petite packages filled with finely ground shrimp and pork—are garnished with fresh green onion and cilantro leaves. Although a bit under-steamed, the tasty mouthfuls hover in a winning sauce: soy-based, drinkably good, and occupying diplomatic territory between salty, sweet, and hot. We swirl it with our chopsticks just to get another taste, long after the wontons are gone.
The Vegetable Dumplings (also hurting for steam) encase pulp of what I estimate to be eggplant and carrot. Heinrich finds the cup of Hot and Sour Soup ($2.95), pleasing, with its yin and yang broth, singular chunk of chicken, and gossamer bits of egg.
Appetizers still underway, entrees arrive. We threaten amputation at attempts to clear the table. We eat in high gear just to catch up.
Samples from the two heaping plates of Coconut-Curry Vegetables ($6.95) and Dan Dan Noodles ($8.95), set our chopsticks flying. The Coconut-Curry's invigorating ginger shavings help lift the rich coconut milk while tofu, sugar snap peas, white onions, carrots, broccoli, mushrooms, and peanuts complete the stewy dish. Brown or white rice accompanies. My findings: the white rice is a good reflector for the sweet and spicy curry, but brown rice embodies an earthy, satisfying character all its own.
Dan Dan, a spicy stir-fry of egg noodles, scallions, garlic, chili peppers, and ground chicken is tempered by cooling shreds of cucumber and bean sprouts. Back and forth we go, and while we dine, a manager and our waiter return frequently to monitor our progress. I ask for a box and order Banana Spring Rolls ($3.95) for dessert. But alas, our time is up. The waiter returns with a box, our check, and a warm plate of fortune cookies.
7:01 p.m. "Shouldn't we get our dessert before we get the check?" Heinrich whispers.
"Ahh, yes. We should." I grimace. "They want the table."
While Heinrich fields another inquiry from yet another manager and table-clearer, I spy the time-stamp on our bill—7:01. Exactly 40 minutes from when we took our seats.
7:08 p.m. Dessert arrives. I struggle to eat under the narrowing gaze of PFC staff. They want to turn this four-top over and are running out of "hints" for telling us to scram.
Although heavy from frying, the banana spring rolls are flaky and crisp outside, warm and fruity inside, and nicely paired with chewy-cold ice cream (which, of note, is vanilla bean instead of the promised coconut-pineapple flavor).
7:22 p.m. Back in the car. Still questioning what the fuss is about. The food is quite good, plentiful, and generally healthy. But the waiting? Is it worth it? In a manner of speaking, ahh, yes. It is. It's worth waiting to have a good experience. There's no excuse for a restaurant encouraging lengthy lobby waits only to aggressively truncate what diners came for—the opportunity to enjoy a meal, at their own pace. I suspect once the pressure's off and the immediate fad of Chang ebbs, the service attitude will improve. If not, Chinese food has a long history of success in another form—take out.
August 29, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 35
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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