Bodega Negra, in the lower intestine of the 16th Street Dream Hotel, is a spin-off of a London hot spot serving Mexican food -- “street, beach and free style.” It’s not easy to find as you brave the lobby. Don’t trip. It’s as dark as a vampire’s coffin. A disco ball overhead and light bulbs in the wall of tequila barrels aren’t bright enough to get Con Edison’s meter humming.

           Sparklers swing aloft, signaling the arrival of a birthday cake. As the night goes on, the tall girls teeter taller, the frocks skimpier. These are not my people. I ask myself. “What the hell am I doing here?”

           Well, as a restaurant critic, I do wind up in spots where I’m not going to mesh. And then, between Tao Downtown in the Maritime Hotel next door and Cherry, right here in the Dream, I’ve eaten surprisingly well on this corner. Confession: Yes, I was recognized. But meanwhile, this bristling triangle of Chelsea is a Fantasy Island for youngish trendicians, an embarrassment of Richies and Nikis, the affluentials who have never seen a velvet rope that doesn’t drop for them.

           I’m wary. I’ve read the bleats of yelpers abused here. The indifference to their reservations. The welcome stand that becomes a chopping block of rejection. The time limit for the table. The missing spoons. The disappearing server. This is the kind of spot you might best book early if your legs don’t start under your arms and your Prada is from the resale shop and you don’t have the pallor of late nights hustling at the hedgefund.

           At 7:15 tonight, I am the only one in the room. I am so not a Bodega Negra type, the maître d’ seem amused. When I ask to move from a corner near the garbage station (tortured by the clatter of busboys dropping dirty dishes into the bin), my pals and I get a very nice booth looking into the bar. There are giant piano keys framing the bar and intimations of a guitar on our wall. Upside-down sombreros on the ceiling. Decorative excess by Serge Becker, partner here with the Tao Group, Will Ricker and Ed Spencer Churchill.

           Expecting not much, the three of us are surprised we love most of what we’re tasting. My friend Barry has asked to skip the guacamole. I’ve read it comes in a skull with jicama and radish and I’m curious, but I understand his caution. It’s easy to fill up fast and put away 4000 calories of taco chips while sipping a cocktail. These are $16 -- once you get over that, you might feel rich knowing you can afford them. I like my El Diablo, a bright blush of crème de cassis-spiked tequila and ginger syrup with fresh lime juice to cut some of the sweet.

           With starters $8 to $18 and platos $23 to $39 and up to $65 for the bone-in ribeye, you could run up a bill here, especially if you need a lot of alcohol to escape your basic insecurity. But our budget gets a boost because the $38 restaurant week menu offers excellent pork belly carnitas tacos with a dollop of salsa verde to begin, and a marvelous chile relleno entrée. It looks gorgeous on spectacular pottery and is filled with a pleasant balance of quinoa, zucchini, mushroom, corn, onion, chihuahua cheese and pasilla chile. (Even à la carte, it’s just $23.)

           The Peking duck taco, even with its mole negro, sesame seeds and kumquat compote, is not as exciting as Tao’s Peking duck next door (I wonder if the kitchen here gets to use the leftovers.). Our trio tends to focus on small plates. Tonight, grilled corn salad (neater to eat than grilled on the cob with chipotle aioli), fat yucca fries and green rice (not my choice -- don’t bother). Suave little tortillas arrive in a basket, for the rice, maybe.

           Chipotle, honey-glazed ribs -- the stickiest, messiest, drippingest I can recall -- are piled on yet another gorgeous platter alongside mango cucumber slaw. The server drops off sealed wet naps. After a pause for a chorus of “Happy Birthday” at a big center table, our desserts arrive on platters big enough to transport a whole chicken. It’s a design statement, perhaps calculated to justify $10 or $12 stickers.

           I get the tres leches cake on my prix fixe. It’s strangely watery. We order something called conchas that comes with fresh berries. It’s an overwrought berry shortcake -- with thick pastry custard, a sweet, frosted cakey crown on top and enough prime berries for three of us to share.

           The manager comes by with his card. He urges us to count on him anytime we need a table in any of their restaurants. Would we come back to Bodega Negra? Probably not. Not because we don’t like the food and might enjoy tasting more. Not because it isn’t theatrical and even kind of fun. But it’s too dark and noisy for us, and I figure we were lucky to get away with being immigrants in this rarified country once. Who knows what might happen next time?

           The manager asks the hotel doorman to be sure we get a car. It’s raining and a lineup from the bars and restaurants in two hotels are milling aggressively, definitely ahead of us. It’s a night for Uber. A few hundred feet from the clamor, a black car pulls up. I try to negotiate. But he knows he has us. A couple of Andrew Jacksons gets us home.

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