Mr. Chang is a close observer of the ways society assigns high status to the food of some cultures and devalues the cooking of others. One of his greatest hits is a riff about New Yorkers who complain about $17 bowls of ramen while paying $30 for spaghetti. If he has a routine about vertical rotisseries I’ve never heard it, but surely he is alive to the associations they conjure, from Greek diners to taco trucks to the Halal Guys carts parked near Columbus Circle. If anybody grasps the cultural implications of bringing $6 street-meat sandwiches indoors where they can perfume the air breathed by consumers of Pink shirts and Floga furs, it is Mr. Chang.

Bang Bar might make more sense as a provocation than a business concern. It begins serving at 8:30 a.m. and closes when the food is gone, usually by 1 or 2 p.m. In the weeks after its opening, on Halloween, the lines were worthy of the Department of Motor Vehicles. Employees tried to appease the horde by handing out off-the-menu snacks, like rice porridge with fermented shiitakes, and asking whimsical survey questions. (“Do you keep peanut butter in the fridge?”)

After Mr. Chang opened a Momofuku Noodle Bar in the space next door, Bang Bar’s crowds grew somewhat more manageable, and when I showed up for breakfast at the end of December, there was no line at all. Maybe Deutsche Bank employees will keep Bang Bar’s early shift afloat, but right now its success seems to hinge on the lunch rush.

There are two rotisseries. After 11 a.m., one spit is buried deep inside a missile of dark chicken marinated with a yakitori-style glaze. The other is at the center of a red, dripping, gochujang-rubbed tower of pork. Ideally, whichever meat you choose will have built up a dark outer bark that can be lopped off with a few knife strokes and stacked on to a disc of griddled flatbread. The bread, thicker than a tortilla and less oily than a roti, will be rolled tight, like a cigarette, then bent in half, with both open ends at the top. This is called, in Bang Bar parlance, a U.