We had a moment several months ago when a handful of spots opened with dubious takes on the cultural borrowings of fusion, and it seemed as though we might be sliding towards a somewhat dim future.
Then Hot Joy arrived. And everything, including its reputation in its home city, seemed to suggest that our outpost of San Antonio’s buzzy pan-Asian spot, now a two-year pop-up housed in a former Texas Land and Cattle on Lemmon Ave., taken on by the Front Burner group (Sixty Vines, Ida Claire, and others) might be an antidote: a fun, zany, energetic romp with more serious culinary potential.
Take a deep breath and glance at the menu. There are edamame with miso butter and togarashi spice; Chengdu-style shrimp dumplings with Sichuan chile oil; Thai-style tiger salad; and steamed buns that can come stuffed with fried chicken and coleslaw as easily as Sichuan tofu or tiger cry roast pork. It’s a whirlwind tour of Japan, Thailand, China, India, Mexico, Korea, Hawaii in dishes that are often brazen: brisket dan dan noodles with cotija cheese, pickled cabbage, and peanuts; allusions to “coolest” ranch in the fried okra; to cheeseburgers in the fried spring rolls. They like to present their desserts–a banana chocolate tart with matcha crumble or strawberry shiso shortcake with yuzu curd–rakishly off-center and askew, a tart arriving as though it had fallen and been picked up again somewhere between kitchen and table. The house style is an equally riotous take on flavors.
But under Chinese dragons and Beijing-style opera masks, the log cabin-style decor of the former tenant painted fire-truck red, it looked to be fun while it lasted. My feelings after a visit? I’d rather go to Front Burner’s other restaurant, Velvet Taco, for a far better version of fusion.
Double miso ramen was sludgy with miso paste and thick with pungent rehydrated shiitake mushrooms, the inherently kitsch mini cobs of baby corn joining roasted corn in a zany mash-up. So much–like the bizarre smear of from-powder wasabi on the bowl’s rim–was weird in a not-wonderful way, and the dearth of broth made the bowl more like a thick, sweet stew. In a city rich with ramen options, I see no reason to ever order it again.
Better was tandoori-spiced cauliflower, its peas, coconut milk, tangy yogurt raita, and pungent fried garlic lively with a squeeze from the grilled half lemon.
The Hot Joy rice bowl, topped with kimchi, scallions, green papaya shreds, and toasted coconut, was bewilderingly bland. The fried egg’s yolk oozed hopefully into the mountain of fried rice. We added chile paste. We added Sriracha. We doused liberally with the rather excellent vegetarian nuac cham that comes with the dish, an ingenious facsimile of the Vietnamese dipping sauce of sugar, fish sauce, and lime–here approximated with tart tamarind and the umami strength of coconut aminos. We arrived at something okay.
Finally was pandan tapioca. The particular conflation of crisped rice, diced pineapple, sweetened condensed milk, and the citrus hit of coconut-lemongrass ice created a mish-mash of grainy textures and a flavor vaguely like lime-flavored Fruit Loops. Pandan desserts are hard to come by, so I’ll take it–and it has that beautiful and crazy shade of peppermint patty green.
Some will love Hot Joy’s decor and its bold approach to flavor. Perhaps we can all agree that it’s best approached as a place for bites to accompany talented Andrew Stofko’s cocktails centered on a masterful command of rum.
