And the spicy eggplant ($16) from veggie section is, as billed, one deliberately hot option. The tea egg supplement ($3) in the XO fried rice with shrimp and sausage ($19) is among the best I’ve had. A modest tabletop toss mixes its snappy, refreshing flavors. The jellyfish tiger salad is daintily arranged with Chinese celery, cilantro, scallions and showered with sesame seeds. There are a dozen items on Potluck Club’s dinner menu at press time, with plenty of details to recommend them. The whole space is attractive, with murals and high-gloss finishes and flattering lights and splashes of sea and coral shades. A row of tables easily reconfigured for groups or those even-more-easily-overheard parties of two leads to the bar under a marquee that reads “HERE FOR A GOOD TIME NOT A LONG TIME,” and curves toward the wider dining room. Potluck Club is exceedingly conducive to larger parties. They’re recommended with sensory-recalibrating with white rice ($3), fluffy and faultlessly executed.Ī few items are plenty to share between a couple, so come with a crowd to try a little more without the commitment to takeout containers at the end of the night. Inspired by a preparation by head chef Zhan Chen’s father, they’re wonderfully rich and easily separated from bone, fat rendered to silken effect. The braised short ribs with kabocha ($38) rise above as Potluck Club’s imperative dish. They look delicious, and their best bites are as light and buttery as they appear, with a few drier, denser tastes in between. The biscuits arrive in pairs, their photo-ready surface enticingly gold with flecks of veggie green, abstractly rectangular in handmade fashion. The chicken is crispy and juicy, portioned to fit between scallion biscuits and spread with a bit of accompanying chili-plum jam for a little DIY sandwich. The reimagined plate could fairly be described as deconstructed, topping boneless fried thighs amplified by white pepper and a five-spice blend with the green pickled slices, capsaicin somewhat reduced from the process. Otherwise, plan to ignite another day or ask for extra jalapeños with your salt and pepper chicken ($25).

So, if you’re wondering out of caution, do not worry.

But with few exceptions, Potluck Club’s Cantonese American menu items are not intended to be “hot” in the fiery, peppery sense more typically associated with, say, Sichuan cuisine. Overheard at Potluck Club, which the team from Milk & Cream Cereal Bar opened on Chrystie Street in June: “Is this going to be spicy?” It is going to be skillfully seasoned, yes, which does not answer the question, I know. Heat and spice are not necessarily synonymous.

Pot luck take out