Tropic-tropic

By Paul Reidinger

IN MEMORY, Hamburger Mary's is a portfolio of dim images, but then it was always after dark when one visited, and one's mind was elsewhere anyway – perhaps at the Stud, which at one time could be found just across the street and was said to be the haunt of tasty blonds. As for Hamburger Mary's: The burgers were OK – moderately tasty. One really went there for the campy-festive mood and the convenience of taking on fuel at the brink of nighttime SoMa operations.

Sneaky Tiki, which (under the auspices of Greg Bronstein and Craige Walters) opened in September 2005 in the old Hamburger Mary's space at the corner of Folsom and 12th, gave me a surprising shiver of lost times recollected when a friend and I stepped through the door one early autumn afternoon. As it happened, we stepped through the wrong door, the old Hamburger Mary's entrance on Folsom, now a portal to Sneaky Tiki's lounge; the door to the restaurant is around the corner, on 12th, and if that door existed 20 years ago, I managed not to notice.

But this slight misfire did not matter, nor did the curious fact of sunshine, and we were soon seated in the once-and-future dining room. The makeover has been thorough; all vestiges of hippie Victoriana have been scrubbed away and replaced by an ultramodern, discreetly hard-edged tropical look of pale green, largely bare walls that seem almost visibly to tremble under the throbbing spell of house music. Such sounds were never to be heard at Mary's, but ... there is still an unmistakable homo vibe to things and to the staff in particular, who are more Banana Republic than boho but still warm and friendly, with a soupçon of flirtatiousness, as if they have communed with the spirits of the past.

The food is another matter. Although we could interpret the Niman Ranch burger as homage to Hamburger Mary's, and while both lunch and dinner menus include a few other little bows to American standards (among them an excellent grilled-chicken sandwich [$8.95], served on puffs of soft bread that could easily pass for small life preservers), the kitchen takes many of its cues from the foods of Polynesia and southeast Asia and quite a few more from the Caribbean. Even beyond the tiki theme, the island tones of the cooking aren't surprising: Executive chef Edward Blyden has Caribbean roots, and consultant chef Thanya Suwansawad grew up in Thailand.

I would, in fact, describe my experience of the chef's pan-fried noodle dish ($8.95), a kind of daily special or surprise, as distinctly Thai: an ovoid mound of broad, flat noodles tossed with lemongrass, ginger, and basil, along with snow peas, split bok choy, and chunks of boneless chicken, with some fish sauce for seasoning. But things quickly move offshore with such choices as island meatballs ($7.95), highly spiced little asteroids on skewers, which make dipping – into mango ketchup and truly fiery cilantro-jalapeño sauce – easy. (If you have sauce left over, you will be plunging your complimentary wonton chips into the dregs.)

The meatballs recur in the pu-pu platter ($12.95), a triple-decked party tray of appetizery items, among them "spider bowl" calamari (tender rings, lightly breaded), beef jerky (glossy and moist: housemade?), and sweet-potato straws, which were essentially matchstick fries made from sweet potato and quite undersalted, as we reckoned the matter. That did not stop us from eating them up; we just salted to taste and got on with it.

An attraction of the roster of main dishes is a (comparative) wealth of possibilities for two. Such implied communitarianism – all for one and one for all! – runs very much against the American grain of individual prerogative, but since individualism has turned malignant and metastatic in our time, we agreed to strike a small, and tasty, blow against it. Also, it is just easier to order one thing and be done with it. So: the tiki harvest ($29.95), a large ahi filet, rubbed with nine-spice powder and grilled before being buried under a jackpot of clams and mussels that fill the platter like quarters spilling out of a Vegas slot machine.

I would have preferred the tuna to be a bit rarer, but even in its state of medium doneness it remained moist and supple, and as it disappeared we discovered the fail-safe mechanism: a vivid pool of garlic fish sauce gathered at the bottom of the platter. It was just the thing to pour over a side of fried rice ($5.95) as a thrifty means of enlivenment.

Desserts tend to have a tropical flair, or at least refer to islands in the sun. In the second category, we found isle of chocolate pot de crème ($6), a perfectly serviceable chocolate pudding supposedly pepped up with chipotle pepper. We were unable to detect any smoky heat. The fruit dip tropicale ($6), meanwhile – basically a white-chocolate fondue – falls in the first group by virtue of its dippable fruits, among them kiwi and mango, though the slices of the latter we found to be overripe and, to judge by the alcohol breath, we suspected of either having been crudely marinated in vodka or having passed the gates of natural fermentation. The star of the show was the dipping sauce, which was made from real white chocolate (not the fake, cheap American stuff of sugar and vanilla) and showed to best advantage when spooned straight from the chafing pot.

We were quite shameless about this, even as the hipsters loitering at the bar, resplendent in their mock turtlenecks and Italian shoes, cast sneaky – perhaps envious? – glances our way.

Sneaky Tiki. 1582 Folsom (at 12th St.), SF. (415) 701-TIKI. Lunch: Mon.-Fri., 11:30 a.m.-4 p.m. Dinner: Sun.-Thurs., 5-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5-11 p.m. Full bar. American Express, Discover, MasterCard, Visa. Noisy. Wheelchair accessible.