Merkato 55

Jerk-style pork belly

Photograph: Talia Simhi

At his restaurant Aquavit, Marcus Samuelsson brought honor to the food of his adopted country, Sweden, and has since cornered the market on its cuisine in New York City. So on paper, the Ethiopian-born Samuelsson seems the most likely celebrity chef to be able to popularize African food. As silly as it seems to lump an entire continent’s edibles into one category, he aims to conquer at his ambitious Merkato 55.

Star power, of course, doesn’t guarantee success. Samuelsson demonstrated this with unremarkable Asian fusion at Riingo a few years back. But Merkato 55 has a lot more going for it. Previously home to the restaurant Sascha, the already gorgeous former biscuit factory in the Meatpacking District has been outfitted in striking ebony, maroon and brown. Outsider-arty murals in the street-level seating area depict maps of Africa, while haunting African portraits adorn the more desirable upstairs dining room.

My favorite spot is at the L-shaped bar. Though the infused-rum program is not quite ready (“still infusing,” reads the menu), the cocktails are good enough to tide me over. The Sogba, named for an African dance, is an ingenious take on the mojito—rum, mint and lime are all there, but ginger beer replaces the sugar and seltzer, adding to it a honeylike flavor.

The cocktails are necessary: The wine program, mostly European and American with meager African selections, doesn’t impress. On one visit, they had run out of two bottles I’d ordered. When I finally got a good one, I had to spend much of the meal refilling my own glass.

The food—better, though still flawed—is inspired by Samuelsson’s frequent trips to Africa and countries that it influenced, which culminated in his 2006 book, The Soul of a New Cuisine. Merkato 55 represents less a “new cuisine” than a compilation, an African greatest-hits tour that works only because there are so few top-shelf regional African restaurants here in the first place.

Most of the time, Samuelsson leaves the execution to head chef Andrea Bergquist, who divided the difficult-to-follow menu into kidogo (African tapas), small plates, entrées and sides. Though the word is unfamiliar, the kidogo visit turf we’ve seen before–tartares, falafel, plantain chips, Mediterranean dips. The more unusual, though not very interesting, offerings include a series of condiments. Three chutneys and four types of sambal (chili paste), including a pungent version with dried shrimp, were served in tiny and pricey portions. Though they’re meant to go with the $4 African bread basket—including two focaccia-like wedges seasoned with sesame or za’atar and a coarse, spiced corn bread—they (and the bread) would have been better off as complimentary snacks.

As for the “small plates,” whoever wrote the menu was being quite literal—problematic, given the steep prices. A plate of two raw yellowtail slices in a sweet, green curry paste notable for a hit of preserved lemon was no bigger than an order of sashimi. At $16, that’s outrageous. Shrimp piri piri was a bit more generous—three slightly fishy head-on shrimp in a fragrant chili sauce—but still unacceptable for $17.

My problem with the entrées is less pricing than originality. The chicken doro wot is an Ethiopian classic, a stew of onions, chile, clove and ginger, with a hint of egg, intended to be eaten by hand with spongy injera bread. While Bergquist’s version uses premium ingredients, it’s the same taste you’d experience at humbler Ethiopian spots. Chickpea dumplings in marjoram-spiced butter, also Ethiopian, have the texture of gnocchi and the taste of falafel, but are ultimately less satisfying than either.

My favorite main course: pork belly, jerk-style—a nod to the African diaspora in the Caribbean—with hints of pumpkin, orange peel and cinnamon. It is kind of an haute jerk, and the type of cuisine elevation I had hoped for throughout the meal.

The inspiration ended with desserts: For instance, four pencil-thin banana fritters—a riff on fries and ketchup, with chocolate and vanilla-coconut dipping sauces—tasted almost entirely of batter.

With Merkato 55, Samuelsson has created an opportunity to initiate and excite the palates of New Yorkers who are unfamiliar with the broad-ranging, and often exquisite, cuisines of Africa. But for now, the mostly underwhelming offerings don’t approach that heady potential. I would have preferred to see Samuelsson focus on Ethiopian, or Caribbean, or any one specialty, rather than treating one continent as if it has one cuisine.