Philadelphia Weekly

The so-called King of Kowloon spent his life covering Hong Kong in graffiti. In the markings he claimed he was H.K.’s rightful emperor, tracing his lineage and listing subjects on lampposts and pillars all through the former British colony. Michael O’Halloran, chef and owner of Kong in Northern Liberties, tells the King’s story so well, you’d think he, not his wife, Sophia, came from the colony.

At Kong, a reproduction of the King’s graffiti blankets the exposed cement walls, an integral part of a convincing, edgy redesign of Sovalo that also includes moody music, lots of black and low lighting courtesy of vintage-looking birdcages retrofitted as hanging lamps. (Comic relief: The cartoon pandas parachuting down the bathroom walls.) O’Halloran conceived Kong as a tribute to the street hawkers he fell for while visiting Sophia’s family overseas. Gritty but stylish, I love the look of the place. As for the food, well, the fortune cookie was good.

I’m exaggerating, but only slightly.

The suitably fluffy jasmine fried rice, full of baby shrimp, shredded duck, Chinese sausage and asparagus, was OK. Kong’s wings were better. Brined, confited in a heart-stopping blend of five-spiced duck fat and fennel-and-cinnamon-infused lard, fried to order and tossed in an addictive honey-chili glaze, they were the crispest pile I’ve ever torn into and a worthy drinking buddy for the gingery Kowloon Taxi, Kong’s attaché to our recent register of Top 15 Cocktails.

But everything else …

In October, Philadelphia magazine tore up Kong like fresh meat at the county jail, so I waited longer than I normally would before scoping it out. But time apparently does not heal all wounds. From the jasmine iced tea so bitter it must’ve steeped for a dynasty to the gelatinous coconut rice pudding, there were so many problems with Kong I’m not even sure where to start.

Maybe in the morning, when dumpling mistress Suet Ping Chiu gets to work. Chiu is also O’Halloran’s mother-in-law, and she makes all the pretty dumplings at Kong, including the crispy-fried satchels marred by terribly gamy ground lamb. (On Thursdays, dumplings are only 50 cents, a good opportunity to experiment with the rest of Chiu’s handiwork.) She also makes the buns that surrounded inedibly rich “Peking” duck confit—though the bird was a small gaffe compared to the actual bun, as cloudlike as the mattresses in a hotel that rents rooms by the hour.

You don’t need to be a Chinese masterchef to understand how these ingredients interact. And to be fair, O’Halloran, whose new American BYOB, Bistro 7, is very well-regarded, does not profess to be one. So he should get an American classic like bacon right. Right?

After curing in Asian spices and smoking over jasmine tea, jasmine rice and fruitwood, the pork belly is sliced thick and grilled, which made the slabs of bacon I received atop cups of butter lettuce tenaciously sneaker-like. When I hefted the first wrap, the bacon tore through like a sumo wrestler on a tissue trampoline, making a quick mess of the table. It would’ve been nice if our share plates and chopsticks had been changed at least once during the meal.

I’m not sure if he’s even the person at fault for the shoddy execution in a side like the salty wok-fried longbeans. Though he says he’s in Kong’s kitchen every night, he was kicking back in civilian threads at the bar the evening I dined. Conception, however, is definitely on his shoulders, especially in the case of the “Big Bowl” of ribbony dan dan noodles (house-made by Chiu), succulent bok choy and tender sliced brisket swimming in a coffee-brown braising liquid broth. Despite simmering with cinnamon, star anise and Szechuan pepper, the broth tasted like beef gravy, and not a very good one at that.

Three spoonfuls. That’s all I managed. But sure, I’ll take the rest home, I told my server, knowing full well it would decompose into a science project in the back of my fridge. Here’s hoping a similar fate doesn’t await Kong, though the writing on the wall says that’s exactly what’ll happen if this kitchen doesn’t master the basics, let alone the intricacies of Chinese cooking. ■