Mission Ceviche is the sort of place that reminds you why New York still seduces—the room glows, the hum is civilized, and the plates arrive with the confidence of a kitchen certain of its palette.
I met a friend for dinner and surrendered to the ambiance first: warm light, polished pace, a whisper of festa in the air. The sweet plantain with goat cheese was credible—sweetness tempered by a sly tang, a little duet that set the rhythm. The salmon belly followed and stole the show, lush and precise, the kind of bite that dissolves the table into silence because words would only interrupt the joy.
The risotto arrived last, wild with sumptuous flavor, creamy without heaviness, persuasive enough to cancel plans and order another round.
The crispy kale Caesar salad surprised me into devotion. I am on a salad kick lately and rarely resist a kale Caesar. This version veered from my usual, yet may be one of my favorite salads in recent memory. The bowl was generous and bright, with a sweet-savory bite and plenty of crunch—textural theater that rewarded every forkful.
Mission Ceviche celebrates Peru with Chef José Luis Chavez’s radiant discipline. The Ceviche Clásico lands with measured brightness—tiger’s milk, Peruvian corn, sweet potato, all in balance.
The Union Square flagship at 7 East 17th St. sprawls like a salon of appetite, while the Upper East Side location at 1400 Second Ave. carries a neighborhood elegance. Menus range from Lomo Saltado’s velvet stir-fried filet mignon to tuna-and-watermelon ceviche lit by ají amarillo and yuzu.
Pulpo al Olivo brings that olive-kissed tide with avocado and fried capers. Papa a la Huancaína layers tender potatoes over a silken sauce, a Manchego veil, and a whisper of truffle.
Cocktails lean Nikkei in spirit: a Sub Martini infused with cherry tomato and basil, or the Rinda—a Singapore Sling rerouted through cherry tea, nigori sake, lychee, and yuzu. Pleasure with posture.
After dinner, curiosity sent us through the discreet door near the hostess stand and down to Sub-Mission, the brand-new speakeasy. The descent felt cinematic. A wood-paneled bar anchors the room, teal stools gleam like polished stones, and velvet banquettes invite confession.
The art plays with sub/dom roles and sensual forms—cheeky nods to power and play that amplify the sublevel theme. The stage tucked in back promises live music, comedy, and the occasional podcast; the lighting turns the air to velvet; the service keeps pace with the mood. A martini lands, the band tunes, and the night takes on a pulse.
Mission Ceviche merits applause for the food alone. The coup de grâce is the complete experience: a dinner that sings, followed by a subterranean lounge that turns appetite into atmosphere. New Yorkers collect these nights the way some collect art—moments of flavor, texture, and sound preserved for the next time the city asks, quietly, if you still believe in its charms. I do. Highly recommend.
For more information, visit missionceviche.com.
