Several precious feet of space in the restaurant’s trim open kitchen are dedicated to a volcanically hot charcoal grill, to properly impart the smoke and char that give the sweetness of so many dishes a dimensional, toffee-like edge. There are few things on this earth quite so satisfying as a Vietnamese pork chop, sliced cutlet-thin and bathed in sugar and fish sauce, cooked quickly to exquisite tenderness over blistery coals; that same heat, applied in the lightest kiss to meaty oysters on the half shell, ruffles their edges and merges their briny liquor with the scallion oil drizzled on top. The touch of the grill is felt in every corner of the room, like a high-sillage perfume made of the primal, appetite-turbocharging molecules of smoke and meat and sweetness. The space feels sturdy; I recall colors and comfortable seats and murals and plants, though to be honest the vividity of the food largely stole my attention from the room. I did note the nostalgic primary-color polka dots on the water glasses, and the wiggly wooden chairs carved with jaunty little rosettes, and the scalloping curve of round-table banquettes along one side of the dining area. The kitchen seemed to be just teetering on the edge of overwhelm—the menu’s lone dessert, on my visits, was never available—and the overarching feeling in the restaurant is one of joyous urgency.