Privileged mezzanine seating nooks descend in a procession of giant steps like a Philippines rice paddy to the main dining floor - a sea of big, round tables like those at rubber-chicken functions. Now, David Rockwell’s plastic-looking Buddhas, generic lattice-work screen walls and Chinese calligraphy might be ordered out of an Ikea catalog of Far East clichés. Las Vegas-style, faux-Oriental splendor was a blast 15 years ago, when Ruby Foo’s first unleashed it on the town. Tao Downtown could swallow in one gulp all of Brooklyn’s critical-darling, blogs-beloved, no-reservations joints and still have 100 seats to spare. As sexless and exhausted as the first one was novel, it at least uproots prevailing wisdom about what New Yorkers actually eat. Brian ZakĬyclopean Tao Downtown, beneath the Maritime Hotel, is nearly twice as large as the mammoth, East 58th Street original Tao, one of the nation’s highest-grossing restaurants. Peking duck for two is the sole standout with velvet meat. It’s hard to stay awake through an Asian-esque menu worked to death at 1,001 other places, washed down by fruity cocktails we thought “Sex and the City” sucked dry in 2004. It’s actually an iteration of 1999, but lacks that famously party-friendly year’s spirit of abandon. Quan Yin is the Buddhist goddess with 24 arms (count ’em, 24) presiding over Tao Downtown’s block-long dining room. Can a fantasy-driven, ear-splitting, 400-seat Asian jumbo boasting 146 different menu items and calling itself the “next iteration” of celeb-magnet Tao put you out like a light? You betcha Quan Yin it can.
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