t's hard to know what to make of Jimmy Lu's, so shrouded are its subtleties, so disguised are its flavors. Maybe disguised isn't the right word, but I'm at a loss.
Stephen P. Karlisch
Jimmy Lu's Asian "flairs" apparently don't include good rice.
Location Info
Details
Open 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Sunday-Thursday and 11 a.m.-1 a.m. Friday-Saturday (972) 732-7270 $$
Closed Location
Related Content
More About
I consulted the press kit, a stylish collection of tightly focused propaganda slipped into the sleeves of a glossy white folder with a black sticker in the middle. The sticker reads "Jimmy Lu's." The dot on the "i" and the apostrophe are in red, in a little touch of Asian style.
Inside the kit is a Jimmy Lu's rap sheet printed on vellum and tied to a piece of thick bond paper with an oversized yin-yang symbol printed lightly in the background. At least I think that's what it is; though it could be a pair of copulating question marks. The press kit's pages are bound with red ribbon and a pair of chopsticks. "When you discover Jimmy Lu's there is no turning back," says the kit, which describes the food as "incredible cuisine with an Asian flair." That might be, though I wish someone had a match to get that flare going. Jimmy Lu's has taken assertive and provocative Asian cuisine and turned it into something the Hamburglar might like to have with his fries. Trouble is, Jimmy Lu's toned-down Asian touches are perhaps more frightening than the originals, sort of like how Dawn of the Dead might seem if all the flesh-eating zombies were Disney characters.
Fright is even part of the shtick. Old Godzilla movies play on the monitors that dangle over the bar, and Godzilla makes a worthwhile appearance on the menu. Godzilla calamari with a pair of dipping sauces in various shades of sweet, hot, and sour was fairly good. The center of the plate was strewn with crisp, battered tentacles, while the edges were neatly cluttered with golden body rings. Breaded jalapeño slices were strewn over the plate to play hot footsie with the sauces. The surprising thing was the squid flesh, which was juicy, plump, and relatively greaseless. Plus, the batter was seasoned well.
Perhaps it was a little too well-seasoned, which is why we got interested in Jimmy Lu's custom drinks--an interest that was quickly doused. The mandarin martini with Absolut Mandarin was a little too tutti fruitti to be of much use without a flock of Lilliputian umbrellas, which didn't accompany it. The frozen mango margarita was cloying without much fruit flavor or zest, plus the alcohol wasn't blended. It floated on top of the slush the way hairpieces float on skulls.
Other Jimmy Lu's offerings didn't fare any better, inducing a yearning to slurp the top layer from that slush. A bowl of rather chalky, salty complimentary fried won ton was a bit greasy to boot, but at least it came with a pair of dipping sauces to drown those sorrows.
Chicken in lettuce cups--chilled Bibb lettuce shells stacked next to a molasses-hued tartar-like mound of minced chicken paste dusted with peanut fragments--featured crisp, clean lettuce. But the chicken was mushy, almost spongy, and there was precious little flavor to soothe those parts of the mouth pissed off by the texture.
Perhaps the worst thing sampled here was the sushi. Jimmy Lu's offerings consist of the ubiquitous California roll and a spicy tuna roll. Tuna roll slices arrived pressed together in two horizontal rows with a bead of bright pepper sauce dribbled over the top. Both rolls were soft, mushy, and fishy, and these were the good points. The nori (seaweed) wrapper was hard and tough, and the rice was like grainy wall paste. Has Velveeta entered the rice business when no one was looking?
This wasn't the only dish where this gummy staple made an appearance. On the lunch menu it was slipped onto kung pao chicken--a sticky cone of the stuff, rising from the plate like some sort of culinary falsie. The kung pao itself was thick, with a cloying dark sauce that overpowered everything: the scraps of dry chicken breast, the crunchy peanuts, the crisp carrots, and the snow peas.
Kung pao aside, Jimmy Lu's is an attractive venue in that sort of hip, destined-to-be-formulated-and-replicated sort of way. It's dressed in lots of blond paneling accessorized by exposed ducts and flat-black conduits. Chinese characters are sewn into the banquettes. Chandeliers over the tables are actually copper mesh bags, and there's a fish tank stocked with saltwater fish.
There's also a large patio in the parking lot that my dining companion said has all the mystique of a Bed, Bath & Beyond. I'm not sure to which mystique she was referring, but somehow I don't think it was the between-the-sheets mysteries.
Jimmy Lu's is full of other wonders. You wonder how some of this stuff gets onto the menu. Is it taste-tested, or is it just wall-tested to see if it sticks? The ginger gulf shrimp, supposedly large shrimp tossed with ginger and snow peas and carrots, was fine, though the shrimp didn't seem large. The rice was hard and dry (how can an Asian restaurant be in such rice denial?), and the sauce was heavy and lumbering, making it difficult to discern any clean ginger flavor.
