Let us begin with dessert, in the spirit of Mr. H, a restaurant that focuses more on a general sense of joy and delight than nailing the details of the main meal. (As responsible adults, we already focus on those, night after night on wholesome rotation. What are we going out for, anyway? Not 30 grams of lean protein on a fainting couch of vegetables.)
When the Hong Kong bubble waffle arrives at the table, it is Mr. H’s finest moment. The waffle is crisp, then chewy, textured with protruding bumps like a Lego. On its scalloped floral dish, it is flanked by coconut-lime sorbet, chocolate chunk ice cream, and a scoop evocatively flavored like the iconic White Rabbit candy. There is a riot of chopped fruit, a ruffle of whipped cream, and pirouette cookies that bristle outward like antennae, the whole shebang drizzled in chocolate sauce. Another floral platter bears little dishes of popping boba pearls, passionfruit caramel sauce, chocolate-covered Pop Rocks, and more. Quiet elegance it is not.
If your table wasn’t already silly with lychee martinis and whiskey-tea cocktails, this mix-and-match extravagance will get you there, as you dip and sprinkle and generally challenge the notion of what might fit in one spoon at any given time. If you are lucky, you are sitting in a U-shaped nook lined with red velvet banquettes, the rose-colored walls casting a flattering glow, decorated with a temple scene featuring maple boughs and wildlife. The black-and-red room is festooned with gold dragons and ornate screens.
Chinatown is a little more than a mile away, with its dim sum, noodle soups, roast duck, and decades-old bakeries. But this is the Seaport, and this is Mr. H, and this is Chinese cuisine as restaurant theme more than cultural expression. The menu is a collection of classic dishes (cheung fun, steamed rice rolls; dan dan noodles), American favorites (crab rangoon, chicken fingers), and modern remixes of all of the above. If the soup dumplings don’t contain any soup, if the noodles are tragically overcooked, well, it tends to get lost in the duck sauce of a deeply festive night out.
Mr. H is part of the portfolio of COJE Management Group, which is exceptionally good at creating gorgeous spaces that feel like postcards sent to Boston from a whirlwind world tour: Mexico (Lolita), Cuba (Mariel), Peru (Ruka). Chief culinary officer Tom Berry, director of bars Ray Tremblay, and executive pastry chef Mai Nguyen translate concept into cuisine.
The year-old Mr. H is COJE’s first trip to Asia, although Ruka showcases a fusion of Peruvian with Chinese and Japanese food. The group also operates Yvonne’s, which features architectural details from the space’s days as Locke-Ober and stylish supper-club vibes (if you’re looking for a spot for a holiday drink, try the Library Bar, currently twinkling with lights and draped in garlands). Coquette, with its Art Nouveau paintings of women depicting different seasons, glides along the Mediterranean coast via the menu. “Co▪quette /kōˈket/ A woman who endeavors without sincere affection to gain attention and admiration,” reads the definition on its Instagram account.
Here, a disclosure: I have, historically, personally, disliked going to COJE Management Group’s restaurants, the only places in town where I was ever ignored as a middle-age woman dining solo at the bar. I don’t like having to beg for silverware, you know? But things have changed, as a recent visit to Coquette made clear: Adjacent to the Omni Boston Seaport hotel, it welcomed a noticeable contingent of solo middle-age women at the bar, where they — we — ate crudo and crab-potato croquettes, sipped cocktails, and read our books. Is this heaven?
COJE also just turned its Mariel Underground, the kind of club that never slept even when the rest of the city did, into a cocktail lounge called My Girl. The party has been turned down to a seductive purr. (COJE’s nightlife-focused Caveau is also a few minutes away.) Boston has changed a little. Dining has changed a little. It was so many things that did it: the pandemic, the economy, app-driven culture, Ozempic. It was everything. The mood’s a little more tamped-down these days. When we go out, more than ever, we want it to look good and feel good.
Mr. H could not be more attentive to that mission.
The service is excellent, mostly professional, always warm and engaged. The glasses, tableware, and presentations are eye-catching; the napkins might be the cutest I’ve ever seen, thick and white and embroidered with red dumplings. Cocktails are creative, original, and synchronous with the food, incorporating ingredients such as oolong tea, pandan, and five spice. And the menus are stocked with delicious-sounding things, albeit in a jumble that can be confusing to navigate. The kitchen seems to be sharper on busy nights than on slow ones.
Some of these dishes do taste delicious: Cucumbers served in spicy vinaigrette. Drunken octopus, thin slices lapping up rice wine, black vinegar, and black bean-garlic mayonnaise, scattered with plumped goji berries and pretty blossoms. Sichuan caulini, spicy, garlicky, crunchy vegetable relief from some of the oilier, heavier dishes. Beijing lamb, which ditches duck for charred, cumin-rubbed skewers of unctuous meat served with pickles, a spoonful of spicy yogurt, and little pancakes in which to fold it all.
Most things taste just fine, from tuna crudo with mandarin orange vinaigrette and citrus segments to popcorn spare ribs, bites of battered boneless pork with chiles and lime, a pleasing mix of crunch, spice, and acid. Steamed pumpkin dumplings look like little orange fezzes topped with pea-shoot plumage; along with wok-charred pumpkin, there’s kale in there, and stretchy mozzarella, and pepitas, but also the flavors of five-spice powder and hoisin sauce. It’s a cute New Englandization of the concept. Chicken fingers are chicken fingers, here for those who need them. Surprising, to me, is that my favorite dish might be the Shechi-style scallion pancake, with fried egg, pickled chiles, basil, and an overlayer of melted American cheese, with its gorgeous, plastic-adjacent, teeth-coating texture. It’s cheeky, it’s delicious, it makes you smile.
Revelatory food is not the real point here. Revelry is. At its most successful, Mr. H serves up fun, tasty, participatory eye candy.
On a recent visit, our server comes bearing the final dish of the night. It is called Chocolate Buddha. I cannot imagine an Italian restaurant serving a dessert called Chocolate Jesus. And I am reminded how I felt at COJE restaurants in years past, bypassed at the bar, aware that I was not the intended audience. I believe that food belongs to everyone; I don’t think we should feel obliged to stay in our own cultural lanes. But it is a dynamic, when restaurants aren’t made for or by the people whose culture they showcase. And Chinatown is just a mile and change away.
These are my thoughts, before they dissolve in a swirl of smoke from dry ice, wafting over a tray filled with a waving lucky cat statue, a golden dragon, and chocolate mousse shaped like a jolly Buddha, surrounded by chunks of brownie, black sesame ice cream, and two red velvet Pocky arrayed like joss sticks. I have a photo from the moment. The mousse is stiff and cold. The platter looks phenomenal. My friends are in the background, laughing and cheering with their arms in the air.
MR. H ★★
225 Northern Ave., Seaport, Boston, 617-458-8008, www.mrhchinese.com
Wheelchair accessible
Prices Small plates $12-$21. Larger plates $18-$115. Desserts $18-$28. Cocktails $19-$22.
Hours Sun-Thu 5 p.m.-1 a.m. (kitchen closes at midnight), Fri-Sat 5 p.m.-2 a.m. (kitchen closes at 1).
Noise level Conversation amenable.
★★★★★ Extraordinary | ★★★★ Excellent | ★★★ Very good | ★★ Good | ★ Fair | (No stars) Poor
Devra First can be reached at devra.first@globe.com. Follow her on Instagram @devra_first.