Mr. Pemoulie, who owns the restaurant with his wife, Alex, could do more to invite travelers, however. Reservations are not taken for parties of fewer than five, and there is a particularly unwelcoming wrinkle. If you have to wait for a table and there is no room at the bar, a host will take your phone number and point you toward some nearby saloons. But then she will tell you that if you don’t pick up the phone, she will immediately move on to the next name on the list.

If you’ve ever missed a call while sitting inside a bar, this may strike you as inconsiderate at the least. Luckily, I passed the time enjoying the company of the high-spirited bartenders at a fusion place down the street called Sushi Tango, and my phone always rang.

After walking down blocks of neat townhouses that reminded me of Brooklyn, I was always happy to head toward the lights streaming from the windows that wrap around Thirty Acres’ corner spot on Jersey Avenue. The 32-seat dining room is simple and relatively unornamented, apart from the pastel portraits of Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford on corrugated cardboard.

I don’t know what brought the ex-presidents to Jersey City, but their benign presence seems to have rubbed off on the servers, who are unusually friendly and free of pretense, and on the amateur disc jockey who stocked the playlist with tunes like “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

The look of the menu is pure Momofuku, with its sans-serif font under boldface headings like “Things” and “Sweet Guys” (desserts). Under “Raw” are two starters that give Mr. Pemoulie a chance to raid the larder of the Ashkenazi Jews, something he did frequently and successfully as fall changed to winter.

A mash of beets with horseradish, last seen at Passover trying to make the best of its unfortunate marriage to gefilte fish, tries out a new partner at Thirty Acres, East Coast oysters on the half shell, liberated for the night from their unfortunate liaison with cocktail sauce. This was one time when infidelity brought out the best in both accomplices.