Jūn in The Heights does the whole small plates thing better than the rest. The menu is a brief list of simple food, intruded by only a few clunky buzzwords. Drinks are wine and sake cocktails only, but each one is colorful and fun, so you almost forget other options exist. Everything inside has an organic edge, as though the restaurant was handwoven or built from a magical slab of clay. Sitting in here is so soothing and pleasant that finding anything negative to say about it would be immoral, like making a child cry. Simply put: dinner at Jūn in The Heights is all hits, no misses. Self-described as “New Asian American,” the food at Jūn blurs the line of any discernible cuisine. While the menu veers wildly in different directions—carrots dressed in salsa macha and Salvadoran cheese, crispy fried chicken with shrimp paste and thai chili, unassuming bowls of savory grits, chili oil, and cherry tomatoes—the end result is deceptively unassuming yet striking food. The flavors and textures so blissfully fade one into the next that when the roasted sweet potato hits the table, the meal becomes emotionally overwhelming, like the first time a dog rolls over and lets you pet its belly. Even the space has the effect of a meditative inhale. Someone with an actual personality put this place together, seemingly with the intention of making you feel nice. Warm plaster walls and massive windows surround tall tropical plants, dried floral arrangements, and muted clusters of art, kind of like someone’s living room, if that someone had a hookup for all the chicest stuff at the Round Top Antique Show. No matter how many times you eat at Jūn, or what evolves on the menu, the experience remains unchanged, sort of like a weathered leather saddle or worn-in blue jeans. Just make those reservations in advance.