Atmosphere: There’s a decidedly geometric feel to the place, as if Piet Mondrian had been born a century later than he was, grew up in New York’s Meatpacking District, and discovered an odd attraction to faux suede. There’s also a DJ booth in one corner and a movie-esque screen in another that looks like it took its design cues from oversized Venetian blinds, onto which “TRIADA” is projected in groovy patterns. Also, there’s an image of a flame in the background. ‘Cause it’s, you know, hot and stuff.

 

Crowd: Empty during a recent weeknight visit, though I’d imagine the just-turned-21 crowd and unrehabilitated clubbers will be flocking here in droves come Fridays and Saturdays. Who, after all, wouldn’t want to pay through the nose for a bottle of vodka to be delivered to their table?

 

Service: It ran the gamut from friendly (albeit peppy to the point of making it a bit uncomfortable) to clueless (several different people dropped off our food, twice with the announcement, “And here’s the sauce,” with no further explanation, despite the fact that said sauce was not mentioned on the men).

 

What to Get: Your groove on. Your mojo working. Your swerve pants hiked way down your booty. Just please: Don’t let the menu fool you. Triada’s overriding philosophy seems to be that late-night noshies are best satisfied with grease and salt, despite the more refined appearance of the menu.

 

What Not to Get: Where to begin? The wine list is composed of every vinous cliché in the book, and the selection of beers ranges from uninspiring to…well, uninspiring. A mojito was overly limey and fell far short in the sugar department. Cuban beef empanadas reminded me of a samosa’s poorly-raised cousin: greasy, oddly flaky, and filled with a mixture of ground beef that tasted as if it had been stolen from my elementary-school cafeteria way back in 1984. Fried risotto and mozzarella balls, while not too scary on their own, were accompanied by an alfredo sauce that actually sent shivers down my spine. It had the chalky texture of cheap cream of potato soup and about as much relation to actual alfredo as nacho-cheeze dip does to a nice aged Epoisse. The highlight was actually the fried calamari, whose crust was almost good enough to obscure the fact that the petrified rings of cephalopod inside were cooked to within an inch of their many-armed lives. As for the quote of the night when I visited, it came when the girl next to us called the waiter over and said, “Um, look what I found in my dumpling.” She paused a beat and then added, officially ruining my appetite for the evening, “A bone.” And there, pinched between her fingers, was, indeed, a little bone. Fred Flintstone, eat your heart out.

 

Verdict: Is Triada a lounge? A restaurant? Some hybrid of the two? The answer depends on your own base of experience. The drinks and music situations are lounge-like through and through, but the menu is big enough and hip enough to some of the currents coursing through the local food scene to make it seem like a restaurant. Whatever it is, your best bet is to stop by for a drink, ogle the hotties at the next table, and then sop up all that overpriced booze with a slice from SoHo Pizza the next block up. The food is better there, and makes a hell of a lot more sense. Come on now—alfredo sauce with mozzarella and risotto balls? Wow.

 

 

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