When we learned a few months back that the National Gallery of Art would be hosting a massive exhibit on the Pre-Raphaelites, we decided that we’d visit there on my birthday. And when Tim Carman’s review of New Big Wong appeared in the Washington Post just a few days before we were set to go, it seemed like serendipity.

The restaurant was within walking distance of the museum, so it seemed like the perfect spot for a birthday feast, especially after reading that it was “a popular destination for bartenders and restaurant employees in the wee hours,” and seeing that Chef José Andrés of the famed minibar had “eaten there over 50 times” and Jeffrey J. Barrientos, also of minibar, had “dined there 100 times that I can remember.”

So after gorging on the Pre-Raphaelites, my wife and son and I walked a half mile north to New Big Wong, where I expected to gorge far less metaphorically. And also, to be wowed.

I was not.

The dishes we ordered resulted in a bifurcated meal, in that my son and I shared the more adventurous Jelly Fish with Pork Loin …

… and Sauteed Duck Tongue with Black Bean Sauce …

… while my wife opted for Roast Duck …

… and Barbecued Roast Pork.

I also ordered a vegetable dish I’d never eaten before, Sauteed Snow Pea Leaves with Garlic. (I’d eaten snow peas many times before, of course, but never the leaves.)

Everything looked delicious, and then we dug in, and I learned … well, for all the guinea pig I’ve eaten, I may not be quite as adventurous as I’d thought.

The jelly fish, cold and chewy, seemed all texture and no flavor, and the pork which lay beneath, also intentionally cold, left me with no impression that it had ever been part of a pig. I picked up no pork flavor at all. Were both jelly fish and pork so cold the flavors couldn’t be perceived? Were they so subtle that my untrained tongue couldn’t pick them up? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t enjoying the dish, and found myself approaching it for educational purposes only, trying to find in it what those who ate it all the time and loved it must find. But I searched in vain.

As for the duck tongues, each about the size of a pinkie, I was surprised to find, when I popped the first one in my mouth, that it was filled with what seemed to be sharp bits of bone. I was expecting the tongues to be meat only, so was surprised at the struggle to separate off the flesh. I did my best, but felt I was wasting meat, leaving behind chunks still attached. But … it turned out I wasn’t that upset, since I wasn’t getting much of a sense of the flavor of the meat anyway, just the taste of the black bean sauce in which it had been served. So I still can’t tell you what a duck tongue tastes like.

But don’t worry—no food was wasted. My son devoured every ounce I failed to consume, proving to be a far more adventurous eater than I was. As he put it … meat is meat.

I decided to give my wife’s dishes a try to see if I’d have better luck with those, and perhaps learn that my disappointment in the earlier dishes was based entirely on my unfamiliarity with them. I was willing to discover and accept that it was all on me. Sadly, I was disappointed in those as well. The roast duck had very little flavor, and the roast pork was overcooked, hard and dry and difficult to chew. So I was no more impressed with the less exotic side of the menu than I was with what had brought me there. I have to say that only the Sauteed Snow Pea Leaves with Garlic brought me any satisfaction.

On top of that, the atmosphere and service were off-putting. The acoustics of the paneled walls were so poor that we were assaulted by sound, and often couldn’t hear ourselves over the echoing screeches of children. Not once did our server ever top off our water glasses or check up on whether we needed anything. From the delivery of the food to the delivery of the check, it was as if we didn’t exist. I didn’t feel welcomed there at all. Perhaps things are different on the other side of midnight when chefs close up their own restaurants and pop on by, but at 6:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, I felt ignored.

After we left the restaurant and began making our way back to the Metro, my son asked what I thought. And I told him my answer could best be articulated by telling him that at meal’s end I was left thinking, “Gee, that was interesting,” instead of, “Wow, that was amazing.”

Which basically means that … yeah, I was disappointed. And can’t see going back.

Unless, I guess, it’s 3:00 a.m. and I’m in the company of a celebrity chef who’s a regular and might be privy to a completely different kind of experience.