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Seasoned With Invention and Irreverence

Kevin Pemoulie's Thirty Acres in Jersey City.Credit...Robert Stolarik for The New York Times
Thirty Acres
NYT Critic’s Pick
★★
American
$$$
500 Jersey Avenue
201-435-3100

ONE school of criticism holds that chefs should faithfully honor any cuisine they pilfer. But there’s an equally valid case for bold, fearless theft. A good pickpocket does not waste time with introductions.

Respect for Italian tradition would require Kevin Pemoulie to do something different with the remarkably fluffy gnocchi that his kitchen rolls out from starchy potatoes and fresh ricotta. It would suggest, at the very least, a straightforward tomato sauce in the Roman style.

At Thirty Acres, which he opened in Jersey City last spring, Mr. Pemoulie has nothing of the sort in mind for his stolen gnocchi. They are bound for Eastern Europe. He has prepared a sauce of mustard and sour cream, and he will toss it with sautéed mushrooms and sauerkraut. He calls the dish “gnocchi, pirogi style,” and that is just what they taste like.

Two traditions have been shamelessly looted for one plate, with deference to neither, and yet these Italian-Polish dumplings were more exciting than any number of earnest facsimiles. Creative stealing takes talent and nerve, and Mr. Pemoulie has both qualities in abundance.

After nearly five years as chef de cuisine at Momofuku Noodle Bar, he could be expected to know his way around Asia. The Japanese spice blend togarashi seasoned a generous handful of tender braised chickpeas, all right, sharing the plate with a square of Arctic char. But Mr. Pemoulie had also swabbed the plate with a purple swoosh of roasted beets puréed with lemon juice, a sauce that was as simple and right as it was free of Asian leanings.

To find a partner for a juicy, lightly smoky quail, Mr. Pemoulie went north for cranberries, then made a U-turn and headed south, cooking the berries into a spicy barbecue sauce that brought the all-American classic several extra layers of complexity.

To a chef like Mr. Pemoulie, the map is merely a point of departure, an invitation to cross borders and jump oceans without leaving the kitchen. The rest of us can catch a ride as long as we’re smart enough not to ask too many questions about where we’re going.

Thirty Acres challenges your sense of geography, starting with its location. Jersey City has not historically been the first place to look for innovative, serious-minded modern cooking. When Fran Schumer reviewed Thirty Acres in the Metropolitan section of The New York Times in June, she gave the restaurant her highest rating, “Don’t Miss,” writing that it served “a kind of cuisine I had never tasted in New Jersey.”

A restaurant like Thirty Acres would be a find in any state. It is the kind of place that can redraw regional boundaries, making the Hudson River no more of a barrier to eaters in search of inventive cooking than the East River has become in the past few years. For those who live near a PATH station, it may be easier to reach than several talked-about restaurants in Brooklyn.

Thirty Acres

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Robert Stolarik for The New York Times

Mr. Pemoulie, who owns the restaurant with his wife, Alex, could do more to invite travelers, however. Reservations are not taken for parties of fewer than five, and there is a particularly unwelcoming wrinkle. If you have to wait for a table and there is no room at the bar, a host will take your phone number and point you toward some nearby saloons. But then she will tell you that if you don’t pick up the phone, she will immediately move on to the next name on the list.

If you’ve ever missed a call while sitting inside a bar, this may strike you as inconsiderate at the least. Luckily, I passed the time enjoying the company of the high-spirited bartenders at a fusion place down the street called Sushi Tango, and my phone always rang.

After walking down blocks of neat townhouses that reminded me of Brooklyn, I was always happy to head toward the lights streaming from the windows that wrap around Thirty Acres’ corner spot on Jersey Avenue. The 32-seat dining room is simple and relatively unornamented, apart from the pastel portraits of Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford on corrugated cardboard.

I don’t know what brought the ex-presidents to Jersey City, but their benign presence seems to have rubbed off on the servers, who are unusually friendly and free of pretense, and on the amateur disc jockey who stocked the playlist with tunes like “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

The look of the menu is pure Momofuku, with its sans-serif font under boldface headings like “Things” and “Sweet Guys” (desserts). Under “Raw” are two starters that give Mr. Pemoulie a chance to raid the larder of the Ashkenazi Jews, something he did frequently and successfully as fall changed to winter.

A mash of beets with horseradish, last seen at Passover trying to make the best of its unfortunate marriage to gefilte fish, tries out a new partner at Thirty Acres, East Coast oysters on the half shell, liberated for the night from their unfortunate liaison with cocktail sauce. This was one time when infidelity brought out the best in both accomplices.

Tasting cured belly of Arctic char sprinkled with sesame seeds and sea salt and accompanied by whipped scallion cream cheese, I could close my eyes and believe I was at a brunch catered by Russ & Daughters. The missing element, a bagel, wasn’t missed at all; it would have gummed up the gently sweet slices of fish.

We were still in Eastern Europe for a kind of pot roast of beef chuck under a shower of freshly grated horseradish and for braised cabbage wrapped around a cod fillet, although the Old Bay seasoning in the broth moved toward America again. The inspiration for a warm salad of spelt with sea urchin and triangles of Asian pear was harder to pinpoint, but I was taken aback by how well the earthy grains took to the sweet and briny urchin.

After appetizers and main courses of such sophistication, Sweet Guys like apple crisp and lemon bars (from a recipe by Mr. Pemoulie’s mother) can feel outclassed. Glassware, too, is a little too homey; the restaurant is B.Y.O.B., and if you’ve picked up a good bottle or anything sparkling, you may wince to see it poured into a water tumbler.

Both limitations probably stem from Mr. Pemoulie’s attempt to work in a space that is not as big as his ambitions. Like many chefs these days, he had to take his opportunities where he could steal them.

A version of this article appears in print on  , Section D, Page 4 of the New York edition with the headline: Seasoned With Invention and Irreverence. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

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