Momofoku you too

On the LAST night of our trip to NYC with my mom – Rita decided SHE was going to pick the restaurant for dinner (apparently...it doesn’t MATTER that it was New York - pizza on three straight nights was enough). So we end up at a trendy little place in “the Village” called Momofoku. First of all, I am incredibly likely to mispronounce the name of this place and embarrass both my mother and me. Second, an itty-bitty noodle bar where the patrons’ median age is 22? Could you PICK a more incompatible place to bring my 71 year old mother for our last dinner in New York?

Let’s just set the stage:

• The wait staff at this place could NOT have wanted to be there less. I don’t know if it was part of their schtick or what – but they were just good-old-fashioned, New York ruuude. To which I could only advise, “listen you pixie-like little waif, replace these chop sticks with a fork for this woman – or she will drop you like a linebacker sacks a quarterback”
• The menu was about 4 inches long. Honest to god. But then again, how much space do you NEED to list noodles; noodles and pork; and noodles and chicken? Of course, there was ALSO the seafood covered kim chi. Knock yourself out, mom.
• Okay, okay – to be fair – there was ONE steak dish hidden on the fortune-cookie-sized menu. Sirloin tips with cooked spinach with some spice none of us mom and I couldn’t pronounce. In keeping with her “drop-dead” schtick, the waitress – when asked if we could get that steak done medium instead of medium-rare – replied….“no”. Good chatting with you, Soon Yi.
• The wine “list” ALSO fit on the 4 inch menu. Would you like merlot or merlot? (but there was, however, a 3 page sake list – who picked this place again?)
• The table choices were 1) community seating or 2) a stool at the bar overlooking the grill. And when I say “choice”, I really mean “can I show you to your bar stool”. Granted...it was a very trendy, Ikea-ish, little bar stool – but also a hey-mom-don’t-fall-off-the-backless-chair-of-death, little bar stool.
• More than one time, I heard mom say – “we’re paying HOW much to have Ramen noodles at a Waffle House??”
  
  I finally just told mom this was an NYC version of dinner theatre. With expectations appropriately adjusted, we had a lovely time.