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137 Rivington St. , New York, NY, 10002
nr. Norfolk St.
212-477-1299
By levels on 12/4/2012
A fun atmosphere, the people working there were super helpful, and the pad thai was one of the best versions I've had in the city. Do not miss the Khuatiaw Khua Kai- it's genuinely something special.
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8 out of 16 people found this review helpful.
By JT10003 on 9/27/2012
Flavorless, boring phat thai was so disappointing. There was nothing about this dish that comes close to replacing the wings that were served here earlier this summer. There is nothing about this dish that comes close to anything served in Thailand. The phat thai is overpriced, and made with pre-cooked shrimp, big chunks (poorly chopped) peanuts and only a splash of seasoning.
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7 out of 13 people found this review helpful.
By MrLongfellow on 9/25/2012
They took wings that had learned to fly and made them broke again. A truly inextricable, mystifying act, like Nico taking voice lessons to increase her range. What redress does Manhattan have for this madness? We had only just begun to know you Pok Pok Wing. Like a tiny headstone, the memory of you is of one that barely lingered long enough to inscribe itself indelibly, yet those lightly colored lines contain magnitudes of longing for days left unlived, wing-flesh left untasted. The eggs have spilled the carton. Yolks fester in the sun. Barren lies the garden. Death dons his cummerbund. They've come to snuff the rooster. And pour away the oil. Sweep away the broken shells. The embryos can spoil. We could have loved forever, but all of life's du jour. The sign on Rivington says Pok Pok, but the wings are nevermore.
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7 out of 15 people found this review helpful.
By MrLongfellow on 9/17/2012
They took wings that had learned to fly and made them broke again. A truly inextricable and mystifying act, like Nico taking voice lessons to increase her range. What redress does Manhattan have for this madness? We had only just begun to know you Pok Pok Wing. Like a tiny headstone, the memory of you is of one that barely lingered long enough to inscribe itself indelibly, yet those lightly colored lines contain magnitudes of longing for days left unlived, wing-flesh left untasted. The eggs have spilled the carton. Their gooey yolks lie in the festering sun. They've come to snuff the rooster and poor away the oil. Sweep away the broken shells and let all the embryos spoil.
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12 out of 25 people found this review helpful.

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