Mr. Fong’s

Under the Manhattan Bridge, a few feet from the jumble of cabbage crates and rodent-friendly remnants of Nissun wholesale seafood, there is a comely little alcove conspicuously lacking Chinese signage. As trim and purposefully attired as its cooler-than-thou patrons, this five-month-old bar has no door policy, but its congregation of asparagus-stalk-thin bodies slung with vintage Chanel ferrets out the interlopers just fine. On a recent Friday night, a statuesque bartender named Michaelangelo, with a topknot and a walrus moustache, gyrated to Althea & Donna’s “Uptown Top Ranking” while a hollow-cheeked woman with a frosty bob posed for a selfie, sucking the lip of a man who had just downed a Popsicle-hued Tequila Zombie in one smooth arc. “It’s either my second or fourth,” he said, of the cocktail infused with Thai chili and Szechuan peppercorn. Two newcomers picked at some pickled daikon (three dollars a saucer) while attempting to order a Vodka Tonic (Chinese-celery vodka, lime juice) and a Salty Plum Old-Fashioned (salty-plum bourbon, bitters). The drinks, when they arrived, were simple, supple, and unconventional, prompting one to ask if they were the proprietary recipes of the titular Mr. Fong. Aisa, another barkeep (and one of the seven owners), shook his head. “He was our broker!” Has Mr. Fong visited Mr. Fong’s? “He has,” Aisa said. “But the good man isn’t a drinker.” ♦