Joy Yee Plus

It doesn’t matter how many other restaurants I suggest—when my mom comes to town, we end up at Joy Yee. Initially, what drew her in was the sight of that perpetually long line, snaking out the door as a signal to Chinatown tourists that this was the place to be. With a line of people—most of them Chinese—the place had to be authentic, right?

Not exactly. Eventually I realized the line was for takeaway bubble teas, the fresh-fruit smoothies dotted with tapioca pearls that Joy Yee takes credit for introducing to Chicago when it opened in 1993. The other line—the shorter one filled with giggly college kids and families who looked as if they could have been on my mom’s flight from Kansas City—that’s the line for food. And that’s the line my mom and I get in. Soon enough we’re seated, and my mother sighs with relief at finding a massive picture menu, which makes it easier for her to home in on the spring rolls, crab Rangoon and fried rice served in hollowed out pineapple “boats.”

The Play-Doh–colored room, the pan-Asian menu of safety nets, the exotic bubble teas—for baby boomers whose exposure to Chinese began with “pepper steak” and peaked at chow mein, this was heaven. Still is. For the rest of us, who eventually worked our way through Chinatown to discover the salt-and-pepper shrimp at Three Happiness, the mapo tofu at Lao Szechuan and the housemade bacon at Double Li, Joy Yee just never made it into the regular rotation.

Now Joy Yee has marked its 16th year by relocating one storefront east in the Chinatown strip mall and putting the Japanese-leaning Joy Yee Plus in its place. It’s a pretty cool space: Tiny iridescent tiles cover every inch of wall, wooden ceiling treatments ripple like curvy white waves over the room, and a koi-filled fish tank is embedded in the floor, visible through a winding length of clear glass.

But the food isn’t nearly as interesting. The nigiri coming from the sushi bar is fine—fish from salmon to amberjack taste fresh (if a little flat) and arrive on nice-sized pillows of basic sushi rice. Maki like the hamachi-ebi tempura roll hold up well, packed tightly with freshly fried shrimp, ripe avocado and bright cilantro. That other Japanese staple, kushiyaki (a.k.a. grilled kebabs), isn’t as successful. Cubes of beef are overcooked and underflavored while dark-meat chicken hunks are insanely salty. Creative attempts like the “heart attack” appetizer also fall flat. Advertised as a crab-filled jalapeño popper, it’s essentially hollowed-out chiles robbed of their heat and topped with more filler than actual crab. A dunk in the fryer and a drizzle of mayo can’t save it.

With a handful of Vietnamese dishes joining the Japanese lineup, you’d think the classic pho would be the torchbearer. But the broth was sad and weak, desperately in need of the fresh herbs, lime and chiles that usually arrive alongside. (For whatever reason, they never came.) The broth of pork miso ramen was richer than the pho but gave off a strange, tinny flavor that was such a turnoff it took only two bites for me to throw in the towel. But I realized that as I was sampling a parade of one mediocre dish after another, a line had formed for the frozen yogurt. Creamy, tart, balanced—everything Asian-style fro-yo should be—it turned out to be the highlight of the meal. And once again, I learned the hard way which line at Joy Yee is for me.

• More restaurant reviews
• More Restaurants & Bars articles