There's even an open kitchen with a demonstration cooking wok in full view of the bar--unheard of in a Chinese restaurant. Two captain's tables that seat up to 18 are sandwiched between the bar and kitchen.
The second thing you'll notice is that the menu has been briskly edited. Instead of endless variations on beef, chicken, pork, and seafood dishes, you'll find a focused menu with about 50 items. Yet, after a few bites, it turns out to be little better than adequate Chinese take-out fare--sans the white cardboard cartons--parked in polished digs. Still, this shrewd combination is drawing North Dallas' well-primped, tailored, bleached, and tanned in hordes normally associated with the latest Dallas see-and-be-seen feeding/imbibing gallery, which is apparently what this haunt has become.
P.F. Chang's, off the Dallas North Tollway, is among the newest links in a small Phoenix-based restaurant chain with units in Southern California, Houston, New Orleans, Las Vegas, Florida, Washington D.C., Denver, and Charlotte. Another link is set to open in NorthPark Center sometime this summer.
Developed by Paul Fleming of Fleming Restaurants Inc., a firm that operates Ruth's Chris and Z Tejas Grill franchises, the P.F. Chang's concept was solidified with the expertise of Philip Chiang of the successful Mandarin Restaurant in Beverly Hills. Together, they seek to combine traditional Chinese cuisine with American-style service in upscale bistro digs.
And those digs are fairly engaging, even if there is a toe too deeply sunk in restaurant theme gook. Signature decor includes two 11-foot stone Ming horses near the entrance, life-size statues of warriors, steel bonsai trees in the back bar area, and a huge mural depicting a scene from 12th-century China above the bar.
These touches adorn a crisp setting with hardwood floors, stone and slate walls, matte-finish wood plank tables, and booth seating covered in red and gold patterned fabric, all assembled in an arc-shaped dining area and a semi-circular bar. Softly lit disk-shaped screens serve as chandeliers, while ceiling beams and ventilation tubes fan out above like spokes.
Divided into sections including meats, chicken, seafood, noodles and rice, and vegetarian plates, the menu borrows elements from all of the major regions of China including Canton, Szechuan, Shanghai, Hunan, and Mongolia--which makes P.F. Chang's boasts about its wine list so perplexing. It's almost as if it were inadvertently mixed up with that of another, completely unrelated restaurant. This peculiar selection is heavily populated with Chardonnays, Merlots, and Cabernets, a near complete mismatch for a menu better served by a diverse selection of Rieslings, GewYrztraminers, Pinot Gris, Pinot Blancs, Chenin Blancs, and Beaujolais (the list has just one GewYrztraminer and one Riesling). Asian foods crush most red wines like Merlots and Cabernets. As for Chardonnays, while there is a possibility for harmony, they more often than not flatten out next to many Asian spices.
On the plus side, the list is roughly organized by flavor profile, and each selection is available by the glass.
The food here isn't as dramatically out of kilter as the wine list, but it has quite a few potholes to clutter its stretches of smooth cruising. Perhaps the best item on the menu--in terms of the sheer pleasure it delivers--is the salt-and-pepper shrimp appetizer. These deep-fried beasts come with heads, tails, and standard crustacean armor intact. The shell is coated with a light batter that creates a thin layer of textural silk to add lively contrast to the crunchy exoskeleton. Plus, there's not a trace of oil or excess grease.
Tossed with scallions, the shrimp come with a ramekin of dry kosher salt and coarse black pepper for dipping. This immensely satisfying starter has a tasty, sea-washed flavor and a range of textures that transcend its deep-fried preparation.
Available steamed or pan-fried, Peking raviolis--crescent-shaped dumplings stuffed with ground pork and vegetables--were equally satisfying. The texture was firm, and they maintained their savory virility right through to the last bite. But the traditional spare rib appetizer--bones holding relatively lean, chewy meat--was slathered in a viscous, cloying sweet sauce that blanketed the palate like varnish.
Hot sour soup, a thick blend of chicken, bean curd, white pepper, and vinegar, picked up on this strain of fluid clumsiness. Far too viscous, this almost gelatinous pottage was riddled with mumbled flavors and had none of the sharply drawn assertiveness that makes this dish so compelling. While heat and tang were detectable, there was no balanced, provocative interplay between the two.
Other items proved more seductive. Chang's chicken in soothing lettuce wrap was as refreshing as it was satisfying. Wet, clam shell-shaped iceberg lettuce leaves are served inverted on a plate next to a blend of chunked chicken, reconstituted shitake mushrooms, and water chestnuts in a rich, soy-based dark sauce. The ingredients are tossed into a wok with the sauce and garlic and then quickly cooked. When wrapped in the lettuce leaves, the blend comes alive with sweet, smoky sauce flavors--the tender, chewy chicken mingling with the fresh, bright crispness of the lettuce leaves.
Entrees were a decidedly mixed bag. Orange peel chicken featured chunks of dry, tough meat coated in potato starch. The chicken is slathered in a sauce rendered from dried orange peel, red chili pods, garlic, and scallions seared in a wok with a little sesame oil to release the flavors. The blend is then infiltrated with Kung Pao and Szechwan sauces to give these flavors a medium. But this richly flavored sauce swamps any appreciable citrus tang or spiciness, that is, unless you unwittingly bite down on one of those chili pods, an action that will send you flailing for the bar.
A much better creation is the roasted Cantonese duck--thick slices of rich, moist fowl unmarred by an abundance of fat. An accompanying plum sauce seasoned with ginger was sweet with a brisk tang.
Chef Roy's favorite chicken--bits of tender bird in oyster sauce with scallions on a bed of steamed broccoli--was rich in both flavor and textural nuances created in no small part by the brilliantly green, crisp broccoli.
Szechwan from the sea, however, should go back to the wading pool from which it crawled. Coated shrimp, scallops, and calamari served in a red chili garlic sauce were pasty, mushy, and soggy with sharply off sea flavors, the kind that turn you white with worry over the severe digestive turmoil potentially hovering on the horizon.
Inconsistency continued with the side dishes. Singapore noodles--thin "Chinese angel hair" stir-fried with julienne carrot, cabbage, and scallions seasoned with garlic--featured perfectly cooked rice noodles. But the whole mass shimmered in a swamp of sesame oil.
Poached bok choy with lightly sauteed black mushrooms was an assembly of slightly wilted leaves and rich, tender mushrooms drenched in a tar-hued, smoky oyster sauce. The interplay between the minimally prepared bok choy and lavishly sauced mushrooms, coupled with the contrasting textures of crisp and spongy, was very effective.
But cold cucumber salad descended into textural spinelessness with large planks of soft, rubbery cucumber drizzled with soy and sprinkled with sesame seeds. Fresher cucumber with a vigorous snap carved into bite-size pieces would have made all the difference.
Equally steeped in boredom is the double pan-fried noodles--semi-crisp egg noodles stir-fried with cabbage, bell pepper, celery, carrot, and chicken (other choices include beef, pork, and shrimp). The noodles were rubbery and--in a dark sauce made from chicken stock, garlic, sesame oil, and cornstarch--void of compelling flavor.
Attentive, and perhaps a little gratuitous, the service was nonetheless efficient. But a little more explanation and knowledge of the menu would have been appreciated, an admittedly difficult task given the crowds these folks must contend with.
Executive Chef Steven Yahwak says the menus in each of the company's restaurants are under corporate creative direction. But he adds he will have free rein to develop specialty menu inserts and daily specials over the next few weeks, just as chefs do at the other P.F. Chang's locations.
This Dallas palace of Chinese fare won't dazzle your taste buds--at least not across the board. But the energy and ambiance take you in, at least for a little while. And after the dazzle fades, there's always take-out.
P.F. Chang's China Bistro. 18323 North Dallas Parkway, (972) 818-3336. Open 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Sunday-Thursday; 11 a.m.-midnight Friday & Saturday. $$-$$$
