I’ve frequented John Holly’s Asian Bistro quite a few times since its opening three years ago. This Lone Tree establishment has seen me in its sleek dining room and waiting for takeout, bags laden with Yushan pork, steamed vegetables, and sushi. Yet, a formal review never crossed my mind until a conversation with Chef John Ye a couple of months back. His unwavering commitment, passionate dedication, and complete honesty about the demanding restaurant business, coupled with his sheer obsession with food, were utterly captivating. It’s clear: food is this man’s primary passion, encompassing all cuisines, though with a special nod to Chinese. Be it Chinese, Japanese, or even American fare, Chef Ye believes people will appreciate good food, regardless of its origin. Having honed his skills across various kitchens, he’s now anchored at John Holly’s, under the ownership of John Holly—a name associated with diverse ventures from Mao to Little Ollie’s and the John Holly’s on Downing Street. Food consumes Ye’s every moment, his waking hours and dreams alike. “I have no time for anything else,” he confessed, dedicating himself from morning till night at the restaurant, prioritizing food and then customers, with everything else falling into a distant third.
This conversation spurred me to revisit the bustling Park Meadows area, a vibrant hub of consumerism designed for mass appeal. The stark contrast between this commercialized setting and Chef Ye’s intense culinary focus intrigued me. Could a Chinese restaurant, offering a diverse Asian-American menu and operated by a Chinese team, truly thrive within the borders of the American Dream?
The answer is complex: it’s a challenge, yet surprisingly successful in unexpected ways.
Waiting for a table on a recent visit, I overheard a newcomer confidently telling their companion about the must-try Thai-style duck. This wasn’t your typical Peking duck (though that’s also on the menu), nor was it pedestrian sesame chicken. This was a half duck, roasted to crisp perfection and served with a vibrant Thai chili sauce—a bold and distinctive choice. Asian duck dishes are demanding, requiring significant preparation time, kitchen space, and a gamble that diners will actually order them, preventing a surplus of unsold duck at day’s end.
These customers, not even seated or with menus in hand, spoke of the duck with anticipation, like seasoned patrons eager for a familiar favorite. This anticipation was encouraging. Witnessing people genuinely excited about their meal, knowing exactly what they desire, reaffirms a restaurant’s fundamental purpose—regardless of the cuisine.
However, beyond this culinary promise, John Holly’s presents a stark dichotomy.
During my wait, the service staff displayed a palpable air of barely controlled frenzy. One could almost expect a server to spontaneously erupt into a Madame Butterfly scene, rice bowl perched precariously on their head. They rushed frantically across the crowded dining area, practically jogging between tables. Panting, eye-rolling, and constant apologies to patrons were commonplace. Meanwhile, across the room, near the kitchen pass, the cooks were… casually eating lunch. A double-take confirmed it: a staff meal. Five or six of them leisurely filled plates from a communal pot, grabbing bites while a couple lingered near the cooking line, exhibiting none of the floor staff’s frantic energy. Through the pass, their demeanor was noticeably calm, almost detached.
Finally seated at an unadorned table—no silverware, napkins, or plates—I ordered appetizers: spring rolls, lobster spring rolls, and miso soup. Before I could inquire about entrees, my server, “Slouchy McGee,” as I mentally dubbed him, wandered off towards the back, his ink-stained pockets and food-splattered cuffs disappearing into the kitchen’s depths.
The food arrived sporadically. Slouchy McGee reappeared with drinks, and I managed to intercept him long enough to order honey shrimp as an entree. My companions opted for basil chicken (a house special) and chicken lo mein—standard choices. The spring rolls and lobster spring rolls materialized swiftly. An extra order of egg rolls, however, remained elusive. Soup arrived only after two of us were nearly finished with our main courses. I ended up with honey chicken—akin to sesame chicken minus the sesame seeds, coated in a thick, intensely sweet glaze—a guilty pleasure in a rapid-onset-diabetes kind of way—instead of the honey shrimp I’d requested. Our lo mein was forgotten, and when it finally appeared, fifteen minutes after our entrees but still pre-soup, it was cold. Chopsticks were nonexistent; we pilfered napkins from a vacant table and had to request silverware twice, which was eventually delivered in a handful for us to sort.
Yet, amidst the service mishaps, conversation flowed easily. We joked about the chaotic service, observing neighboring tables descend into a Lord of the Flies-esque dining experience—playfully snarling, jokingly stealing food, and nibbling on appetizer garnishes while awaiting perpetually delayed tuna tataki. As our meal progressed, we amused ourselves by predicting what might transpire when we requested to-go containers. Would Slouchy McGee return with our leftovers accompanied by three chopsticks, a half-eaten spring roll, and soup poured directly into the bag? Perhaps our missing egg rolls, a salt shaker, two employee time cards, and a 1982 Honda Civic, someone else quipped.
Service blunders aside, the food was undeniably decent—not exceptional, but certainly not subpar. Our choices were relatively safe, yet the Chinese dishes we received were prepared with care, demonstrating a conscious effort to lean towards Pacific Rim freshness, distancing themselves from the typical, stale strip-mall fare. The basil chicken was generously studded with sautéed basil stalks—the herb treated like a vegetable, akin to spinach or kale, cooked alongside the chicken—resulting in a potent basil flavor, enhanced by black pepper and hot chili powder. Had it been served hot, the lo mein, with its tender noodles and chicken in a rich, sweet sauce with scattered vegetables, might have been excellent too.
We weren’t alone in recognizing the kitchen’s culinary intentions. Around us, diners were venturing beyond the predictable sweet-and-sour chicken and kung pao dishes, opting for more adventurous selections. At the next table, a woman, seemingly in her nineties with an oxygen tank, was trying sushi for the first time—and visibly enjoying it. Children nibbled on gyoza and maguro sashimi, and tables filled with well-dressed patrons savored Holly’s excellent wonton soup—served family-style in a massive vat, resembling the communal pots seen in authentic neighborhood Chinese restaurants, with diners playfully vying for the last morsels with their chopsticks.
On a subsequent visit, the service somehow managed to worsen. Highlights included a server who appeared to be battling a severe illness, an appetizer dropped and then redeposited onto the plate by a waiter, and a sushi bar team operating in a zen-like bubble of calm amidst the surrounding chaos.
Returning yet again, the service during a busy period reached comical levels of ineptitude. The same bowl of soup was presented to our table three separate times by three different servers. Blanket apologies for delays, pacing issues, and course timing were offered to every table by every staff member, often before even a greeting. Despite this, the Singapore rice noodles were excellent, infused with a deeply flavorful yellow curry and a pleasant heat. The edamame was perfectly salted and steamed. A Thunder Roll from the sushi bar, though poorly rolled, unevenly cut, and aesthetically challenged, was nonetheless delicious, filled with spicy tuna and avocado, topped with glossy black tobiko. The filet of sea bass in gingered soy was served as two large pieces, glazed with sauce, bones still intact. Removing the bones revealed buttery, rich, and perfectly cooked flesh.
And once more, the dining room buzzed with enthusiastic diners. They gestured for waiters, mispronounced “edamame,” inquired about sushi preparation, bypassed moo shu and lemon chicken for miso-glazed tenderloin and Cantonese chow fun, and expressed wonder at the flavors extracted from a simple pork dish.
This is the tangible outcome of John Ye’s dedication—his culinary obsession and his belief that diners will appreciate quality food. Despite the consistently subpar service, the food triumphs—a rare victory for authentic Asian flavors in the heart of consumer-driven America.
