There were four of us for dinner at InTent, Francois Payard’s new Moroccan and Mediterranean bistro in Nolita. Two prolific book authors, a wine guru and me. I arrived first. The air outside that night was hot, dark, and thick, like sticky molasses simmering on a stove. It was still near 100 degrees at 8:30 and was about to storm. I was wiped out from the heat. I checked in with the hostess, and since I was the first to arrive—and seating an incomplete party is a restaurant’s cardinal sin—the hostess asked me to have a seat at the bar to wait for the rest of my party. I did as she instructed. I sat, but the bar was about two feet too high for the stool, so my chin was about the level of the counter. This was not comfortable. I felt like a small child. But I tried to make it work. I ordered a glass of wine and observed the room from my too low stool (at the too high bar). The glassed in front room was had a hip vibe, but was soothing too, washed in earth tones, with hand blown lighting and an amber gel splashed up behind the bar. I was served my glass of rosé. I reached up to drink it. Andrew and Karen arrived next. Rosé for them too. As we finished our glasses, we were permitted to sit. I suppose that three could sit and wait for the fourth. The hostess escorted us to the tented back dining room that gives this disappointing restaurant its name, but the bartender stopped us and asked us to settle up. We were already up and following her. “Would you mind transferring our tab?” I asked. “No, I cannot transfer the tab.” He snarled. I looked at the hostess. “We can transfer it.” She smiled. “No you can’t.” He snarled. “Yes we can.” She smiled, teeth clenched. I felt they might start throwing things at one another. Okay, so the staff has some kinks to work out.

We made it into the back room (the tab was miraculously transferred), past the open kitchen and into a Ringling Brothers Big Top as dining room washed in sandy colors with long banquettes lining each side of the dining room and a long central table decorated with Moorish lanterns. It’s a nice dining room.

If only the food were as pleasant. Sadly, it is not.

And this is surprising to me considering the team behind Intent includes acclaimed chefs Francois Payard and Philippe Bertineau of Payard and that the acting chef of Intent is Craig Freeman, a Le Cirque veteran. One would think they would have learned seasoning somewhere in this impressive crew. But alas, they have not. The food is flat. Concrete slab flat. No acid, no heat, no salt, no contrast in texture or temperature. No life. No passion. No zip. What’s more, the restaurant has no soul. There’s no one who seems to care about whether you are having a good time or not, no sense of warmth or hospitality. There were a bunch of people who worked there milling about air kissing eachother, pointing at different aspects of the design, and getting in the way of people trying to be seated in the main dining room. They just made me feel like I was in the way. Not a pleasant feeling.

We began with the warm eggplant tart, a small (overdone) pastry round filled with eggplant puree, topped with a layer of goat cheese and thin strips of zucchini ($9). It was pleasant enough. But the monkfish mousse ($9) with tomato gelee, fresh tomato salsa and country bread tasted like bland yet quite bouncy whipped cream. It had no saltiness, no smokiness, and no discernable fish flavor. And the country bread? That was an oily thin wisp of a cracker. Why bother?

The crab Napoleon with crisp potatoes ($12) reminded me of a soggy potato chip lasagna filled in with wet crab salad with much too much celery and not enough flavor. I mean, Please! And don’t even get me started on the spongy octopus salad with white beans. The octopus had the same texture as the beans! Not good. And has anyone in that kitchen heard of acid? Splash some vinegar in the mix, crack open a lemon, break out a chile flake, explore the idea of salt.

This was bad. We were all starting to look at eachother at this point, wondering what was going on. “What did you think of that?” I asked Karen, pointing the monkfish ousse. “It doesn’t taste like anything,” she said. Echoes of “I thought so too” came from around the table.

Entrees did a bit better but they were fired (prepared) way too quickly. They were served just as our apps were cleared. A bit of breathing room would have been nice. The lamb burger, which was $22 (!), was tiny, about the size of a four ounce patty from Shake Shack. In addition to being small, it was also completely flavorless (I was sensing a theme). On the bright side, it was served with a nice tangy yogurt sauce but then on the down side, it came with a pile of greasy zucchini fries. Sound the Gong please!

The bric-crusted branzino ($21), a beautiful filet of fish tucked into a crispy crepe wrapper was terrific actually, though the potatoes it was served on were lumpy. A signature turkey osso bucco ($19) with chickpeas, harrisa and broccoli rabe with Moroccan spices offered tender braised meat, but again there was no punch, no heart. The sauce was thin and weak and could have been reduced down to add some body to it. The final nail in the coffin for us was the slow braised pork ribs ($18). Yes they fell easily from the bone but they fell off into ropey lengths that were overcooked and were overwhelmed by so much sweet honey and cardamom that I thought I was eating some sort of Indian dessert. Pork ribs that taste like cardamom dessert are not good.
We then realized that we had never gotten our order of Panisse—chickpea fries ($5). Our waitress had not come over to see how we were doing or if we needed anything else, so we had to flag her down. It took a few tries. Soon she noticed the white napkins flailing in the air and she came over. She apologized and soon brought our panisee over. Perhaps it would have been better to have forgotten them. They were like dust, disintegrating in my hands as I lifted one up. I was now defeated.

The best part of dinner at Intent (other than leaving and discovering a great wine bar across the street called Vin Noir) was dessert (all $9.50). While on the small side (and for $9.50 they should not be), we loved the red wine poached Medjool dates, cooked down so they are jammy and served over a petite feta cheesecake, a nice contrast in textures and flavors. I also liked the Mission figs served three ways—bruleed, sticky figgy pudding and a quenelle of port wine poached fig ice cream. Lovely.

No one wished us a good night at Intent. We left, unnoticed and hungry, not so much for more food (though the portions all around are small and the idea of going to pizza at No. 28 Carmine was raised), but hungry for a place with soul. InTent was a major disappointment, especially considering its owners. They need to get down there and put some people in that room that can, in the eternal words of Project Runway’s Tim Gunn, Make it Work! Because right now this place is a restaurant in name only. They serve food, mediocre food at best, but they don’t serve anything else. There’s no love here, no feeling, and no—excuse the pun—intention.

InTent is located at 231 Mott Street (Prince and Spring), 212-966-6310.

Andrea Strong