Mama Lee
This nook of a storefront beyond the reach of any subway is bright and clean, and that is the extent of décor and ambience. The food is enough: Taiwanese favorites like cloud-soft lion’s head meatballs of startling circumference — I keep showing people pictures on my phone, like a proud mom — and beef noodle soup with hunks of meat fit to feed giants and broth to the very rim. When I tried to tip at the end of one meal, Mei Lee, the chef, owner and sole employee, slapped my hand. “I’m the only person here,” she said. If the restaurant looks empty, she’s probably in the kitchen. Ring the bell at the counter. Be patient. In truth, she’s not sure she wants more people to find out about her restaurant. “Don’t tell anyone,” she warned me once. Forgive me, Ms. Lee.
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This nook of a storefront beyond the reach of any subway is bright and clean, and that is the extent of décor and ambience. The food is enough: Taiwanese favorites like cloud-soft lion’s head meatballs of startling circumference — I keep showing people pictures on my phone, like a proud mom — and beef noodle soup with hunks of meat fit to feed giants and broth to the very rim. When I tried to tip at the end of one meal, Mei Lee, the chef, owner and sole employee, slapped my hand.
“I’m the only person here,” she said. If the restaurant looks empty, she’s probably in the kitchen. Ring the bell at the counter.
Be patient. In truth, she’s not sure she wants more people to find out about her restaurant. “Don’t tell anyone,” she warned me once.
Forgive me, Ms. Lee.
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