As a New Yorker, genus Upper West Side, I took the cloning of Five Napkin Burger on Broadway at 84th personally. Not quite the tooth fairy leaving an emerald under my pillow, but boy, the old neighborhood is looking good. I’m as much into cholesterol denial as anyone so I allow myself a burger once a week, usually by-passing the potatoes for a double order of cole slaw and a handful of frites I snitch from my mate’s plate. I also have never met a mac’n’cheese I didn’t try and I like to pretend Caesar salad is a veggie.

        True, the new, eagerly anticipated seed of Andy D’Amico’s Ninth Avenue burger joint is just a couple of blocks from Nice-Matin, where the chef perfected the griddling and adornment of this 10-ounce slab of linen-frazzling ground chuck. Now even Chef Tom Valenti, a neighbor at Ouest, was looking forward to the burger next door. A huddle of early-birds gathered outside last Monday when the door officially opened at 5 pm and unfettered flocks have been piling in ever since, perching at the bar or clustered in the small entry waiting for a table.

        The corner that used to be Ollie’s glows – it’s darkened inside but spotlights seem to be moving on red awnings above. Passersby check the menu outside and a doorman lets them in (at least till demand staggers decorum). “We tried to copy Ninth Avenue exactly,” says D’Amico greeting us. Shiny white tile, meat hooks and butcher scales, a few booths on one side, for now just wine and beer and cocktails starring wine or beer till the liquor license arrives. 

         I read the foodie blogs now and then so I know some New Yorkers are outraged if a burger costs more than $6.  You combustible proletarians be warned: At $14.95 this is definitely an upscale burger with fries or any side you prefer, but it’s also dinner. The place is already a smash, a retreat for the recession where two can eat for $60.

        Of course the partners hope we’ll eat more than a burger and a shake. That’s why there are entrées from $14.50 up -- fish and chips, steak frites, charred paprika-spiced salmon -- and starters from a pop-eats hit parade of temptations – chicken wings, tacquitos, chicken noodle soup with matzo balls. There’s a bow to sushi too. The spicy tuna and cucumber maki roll topped with tuna and avocado that D’Amico sends as a gift is enough for four and amuses my bouche as an opening act. And I admire the crisp perfection of cornmeal crusted onion rings stacked high and salted with devil-may-care brio. 

         Since there’s no vodka in the house, one of our friends orders a lemonade with muddled berries – fresh, tangy, remarkably, not too sweet.  He has an itch for the pork taquitos too.  I’d skip them myself. Of course we’re sharing the macaroni and cheese, plump shells floating in molten cheddar and Gruyère and leek cream with a nice crunch of parmesan on top. Not my Mom’s macaroni for sure.  “It’s too rich,” one of our companions protests. Of course it’s too rich.  But if I knew I was going to die tomorrow anyway, I’d finish it.

        And yes, at last, the burgers. The four of us are sharing two “originals” with Gruyère and caramelized onion and rosemary aioli, and a third cheddar-bacon with a slice of raw onion, lettuce and tomato. I’m poised for the exuberance of perfection I remember from downtown. But no. I’m in burger shock. The sprawling greaser is not seared and it’s barely warm, almost raw. Was the kitchen spooked because it’s me and I said “rare” in that firm voice I use when I say “rare?” It’s the fifth night and the house is packed. Is the griddle too crowded? I nibble the bacon, the tater tots and more than my share of splendid house fries, better than the soggier Tuscan fries with herbs and parsley and an extra hit of salt from parmesan. The Road Food Warrior finishes off my burger.  “I need four more napkins,” he tells the server.

         A spoonful or three of brownie sundae with espresso, caramel, and vanilla ice cream is just enough sweetness, and chocolate with salted peanuts restores my good mood. What an inspired touch, those salty nuts. I’d never have known it if the waitress hadn’t forgotten to hold back the peanuts as we requested.

         Of course I’ll be back. I might wait a month for my arteries to recover.  I’ll try to reserve. The house takes limited reservations to hold tables for walk-ins. I’ll order that oozing burger and the tater tots. By then the griddle will be smoking hot and I’ll expect the Five Napkin burger of my dreams.

        Some pepperheads I know, brows wet with sweat, will boost that no chili is too hot for them. Not me. I took the Szechuan pepper challenge in Chengdu some years ago - the peppers won. So I watch out for lethal firebombs, though I do love chili heat.  Tonight compassion and fair play require me to consider the meeker palates at the table as I contemplate the amazing roll call of items on the menu, perhaps a third with those little red peppers alongside as a caveat.  And I notice the offer to make it hotter or not, as you wish.

        But even though I sneaked in a few sizzlers, it seems that someone has taken the temperature at our table and decided to turn the heat down.  In the end it’s not excessive fire or my gracious surrender to community that sabotages dinner – since I wasn’t particularly gracious and I didn’t surrender. It’s the kitchen which is sadly uneven - and whoever decided there must be sugar in every dish. I should have gotten the message when I saw there were no chopsticks on the table, just forks and knives. I had to ask three times to get chopsticks.

        A rave in the Times “under $25” has already packed the house. I agree this Chalet spawned in New Jersey by Chef Wei Lu from Chengdu could be a find in any neighborhood for its upscale manners: tablecloths instead of linoleum, tented forest green napkins, and inoffensive tschotkes on the wall. The standing screens that shield us from the rush of people being led to the back room are a thoughtful touch.

         But those of us who grew up in the golden era of Chinese cooking in the mid-70s with Uncle Tai and Uncle Lu and Shun Lee’s master T.T.Wang are not so easily pleased. I remember the first delicious shock of silken meats and the complexity of layered flavors shining through the chili blasts.

        Our server tonight couldn’t be prettier or more patient.  No big deal that she finds it hard to understand English. I point to the dish and tell her the number. She recommends the minced chicken in lettuce, $7.50 for 2.

         “Could we have two extra lettuce leaves?”  I ask. 

         “That will be $1,” she says.

         “A dollar for two lettuce leaves?  Are you sure?”

         “Two lettuce? That will be two dollars.”

         In a fit of pique I cancel the order for extra greenery. Too bad I got so chintzy. The two heaps of minced bird with corn, bell pepper and pine nuts is definitely the best dish of the evening.  I’m relishing my half from the plate so that Steven can roll up his in the perfect leaf of lettuce. Of our other starters, Sichuan pork dumplings in red hot oil are ungainly, thick and primitIve; the pork buns unremarkable. Admittedly I’m spoiled by the refinement of chef Joe Ng’s dim sum at Chinatown Brasserie. Happily, chilled noodles in spicy sesame vinaigrette is so meek, everyone can share.

        If the Szechuan Chalet had settled in my neighborhood, I might be back just for the fat Shanghai noodles with pork and a few shreds of spinach – fat meaning thick and firm, the noodle Steven and I are always hoping to find. And the four of us can barely make a dent in a generous platter of double cooked bacon “with spicy capiscum” which is not spicy at all, but satisfies the passion for bacon.  We are careful to pick out the bones left by the captain who offered to “open up” our whole sea bass in minced pork sauce. But the fish drowning in its lackluster murk is overcooked and not worth the effort.

        There’s nothing really wrong with the orange beef – patties coated in corn starch and deep fried with pepper and onion, except of course it’s not hot as advertised, and lacks the elegance of caramelized dried orange I remember from the masterly Chef Ho’s wok at Fortune Garden, where the marinated beef was tender enough to cut with a chopstick. And everything is too sweet.  What more can I say?  With two glasses of wine and tip, more food than we four could or would eat is just $40 a person.

        Given 200 items on the roster, maybe I needed to taste more. And if I do, I’ll bring my own lettuce.

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