Upscale chain Jiang Nan brings tableside fireworks to Chinatown

Have you heard the expression, “Where there’s smoke, there’s a plate of cumin lamb on fire”?

Maybe not. But one could easily begin to get that impression at Chinatown’s Jiang Nan, where this new branch of a growing national chain presents its specialties with more tableside pyrotechnics than a metal show at the old Trocadero down Arch Street.

Poof! goes a splash of Chinese baijiu liquor as it bursts into a blue fireball around a foil pouch of stir-fried sliced beef. “Careful!” warns another server as he sidles dramatically up to our table to ignite a blowtorch — click, click, whoosh! — hand blasting the “Mega Lamb” skewer with a flame that sizzles so close to us I can smell Xi’an-style spices toasting on the tender cubes of meat. That aroma is a drier spice than the earthy punch of cumin and herbaceous cilantro that radiates from the cumin lamb.

There’s even the special effects of dry ice for a heaping platter of chilled shrimp that emerge from a swirling, primordial mist laced with tea leaves beside a crock of vinegar. Considering the drama of this dish, served in a gray-black box of a dining room beneath spotlights that illuminate each dark linen-covered table, it was one of the blandest dishes I’ve ever eaten in Chinatown, the shrimp plain, small, and unremarkable. It gave me pause as to whether this splashy addition to the neighborhood is making waves more with its gimmicks, moody style, and Michelin Guide hype than actually notable flavors.

Thankfully, that was not entirely the case as I ate through the large menu’s range of specialties from across China, in particular the vast region of Jiangnan that arcs along the Yellow Sea from Shanghai to the South China Sea below Hong Kong. From a distinctively honeyed take on Peking duck to pork belly in sweet black tea sauce and an array of fiery Szechuan classics, the food here from corporate chef YuFeng Li is largely well-crafted from good ingredients and solid in execution.

That diversity of flavors, rather than a single regional focus, is part of the reason Michelin singled out Jiang Nan’s original spot in Flushing, N.Y., with a Bib Gourmand nod as a good value in 2022, just two years after its founding by entrepreneur chef Lei Chen. He’s parlayed that coveted notoriety into rapid growth, with eight locations already in four states and 40 restaurants as a target goal. The fact that it chose to invest out-of-town capital in Philadelphia for that expansion says a lot about the current draw of our Chinatown, still poised for growth and organic community evolution despite the looming shadow of a controversial Sixers arena proposal, which I believe poses a serious long-term gentrification threat to this historic neighborhood.

This is not to say Jiang Nan’s kitchen sets entirely new standards for Chinatown. I’ve had brighter and bolder versions of many of these individual dishes at various other independent restaurants, compared to renditions here that can taste restrained in order to appeal to a broad audience. (Whoever in that audience needs the disposable gloves offered to each customer in condom-size packets alongside the build-your-own chopsticks ... I can’t imagine.)

But that is partly the appeal of the Philly location, says manager Jeremy Chen, which has a deliberately more modern “fusion” focus and trendy contemporary style than the classic Imperial style of Flushing. No, I don’t really need to come back here for Jiang Nan’s version of General Tso’s chicken made with sweet-tart blueberries (in lieu of vinegar), or the chicken lettuce wraps, even if both would nonetheless be solid improvements for habitués of P.F. Chang’s. The kung pao chicken isn’t bad, either. But there are more than enough dishes here rooted in genuine Chinese flavors to resonate with the young clientele of Chinese students from Drexel, Penn, and Temple who consistently fill the room, sipping coconut-inis, ocean blue tiki drinks, glass barrels of pineapple beer, and “potpourri milk” that, you guessed it, comes shrouded in dry ice mist.

Jiang Nan offers a complete package experience of ambiance, style, and engaged service that is something different for Chinatown. It’s worth a visit, even if your server scolds you, as ours did, for ordering too much food.

The Peking duck is one of the must-order specialties. The bird is inflated with an air pump before cooking to separate its skin from its flesh — for maximum crisping — then gets lacquered with a blend of honey and maltose to roast into a reddish-golden cracker. The sweet crunch against the tenderness of savory flesh is impossible to resist when wrapped inside the gauzy round of a sheer fresh pancake layered with hoisin, shaved scallion, and snappy cucumber sticks. I definitely didn’t need the extra sugar provided as a side garnish — much of the food at Jiang Nan is already startlingly sweet (like the candied lotus root stuffed with sticky rice). The additional cubes of pineapple, though, are handy to cut the richness. Even better, go for the $15 “dual option” to have the leftover duck bones crisped in a salt-and-pepper crust. There’s a surprising amount of leftover meat clinging to the carcass beneath each zestily fried crunchy bite.

Chef Li happens to come from Shanghai, so it’s no surprise the xiao long bao are now among the best soup dumplings around, their supple skins a result of fresh dough made daily. Li’s signature chili oil, infused with ginger and Chinese herbs, is also key to the excellent renditions of appetizers like the wontons in chili oil or sliced ox tongue in hot and spicy sauce. The steamed buns with puffy dough skins made to look like mushrooms (and stuffed with mixed fungi and red bean paste) are equally clever and delicious.

A handful of Jiang Nan’s big ticket dishes were letdowns. The hand-peeled crab, which brought two kinds of crab in gilded crab-shaped crocks to be mixed with rice, was all orange roe and too little meat for $29.95. The chicken soup with fish maw was small and bland, with just a single, unshareable maw — the fish’s swim bladder — for $15.

But the cubed pork belly glossed in gently sweetened black tea sauce and the blanched head of young Napa cabbage in chicken broth topped with dried scallop were two soft-spoken dishes I appreciated for their subtle complexity.

The flank steak with house special sauce was another low-key surprise I’ve never encountered elsewhere, a bone-in rib steak braised for an hour with medicinal herbs, sliced down and grilled, then served with a thickened gravy that had all the comfort of a Chinese pot roast. The crispy beef in lime sauce, on the other hand, was shredded so finely the beef flavor disappeared inside threads of crust.

On the contrary, I relished the thinly sliced eel deep-fried with Korean chile powder and dried red peppers. It’s a dish similar in style to versions I’ve had with both shrimp and chicken, but with a more interesting texture akin to fries made from fish — whose resilient spring was due to the fact that the eel was dispatched moments before cooking from a live fish tank at the restaurant.

The same is true for the large whole striped bass, which comes in various styles. The crisply fried fish in sweet and sour sauce is always popular. But I’d suggest the Chongqing style, which founder Lei Chen spent several months in Szechuan province learning. It’s marinated for an hour in ginger, scallion, soy, and herbs before it’s grilled over open coals, which firms up its texture. Then it’s slipped into a hot bath of crimson sauce that arrives at the table roiling in a pan perched over flames, its billowing steam spiced with fistfuls of chiles, garlic cloves, and the nose-tingling scent of Szechuan peppercorns.

More smoke? More fire? Chinatown’s trendy newcomer definitely brings some hot showmanship to dinner.

927 Arch St., Philadelphia, 267-534-5276; jiangnanny.com

Open Monday through Thursday, Sunday, 11:30 a.m.- 9:30p.m.; Friday and Saturday, until 10 p.m.

Most entrees are in the mid-$20s, but sharing items, including the half duck and whole fish, range up to $49.99.

Not suitable for gluten-free diners.

Wheelchair accessible.