When In Roam

A Better Apple in the Big Apple

2007-10-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

Fall is in full swing in New York, and in the grocery stores here, it means lots of fresh local apples. At the Shop Rite (in Jersey City, actually), I bypassed the Red Deliciouses and Golden Deliciouses that you can buy everywhere, and found a bin of New York-grown “Macoun” apples in the middle of the produce area. I have never seen these before, not even during my undergraduate years Upstate.

Macoun is a muscular Macintosh with the sensibilities of a Fuji. In other words, it is a rather large apple, about fist sized, with a rosy complexion and a blush of green at the top. The flesh of the fruit is firm, with a pale green color, almost white. The flavor is robust and considerably sweeter than any apple I have ever tasted. Unlike the Macintosh, which can be mouth-puckering tart, Macoun has the perfect touch of tartness. And while the texture does not match the lovely crunchiness of a Fuji, it is firm and juicy in every bite—An absolutely adorable apple!

Stuff like finding the Macoun apple makes me miss the east coast, alas only briefly. When the air chills down and the foliage begins changing, nothing says more of the season than the scent of apples wafting through the air. That, to me, is what fall is all about.

Chiu Chow Rice Soup: Chao Zhou Restaurant, Flushing, Queens

2007-10-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

I ate many a rice gruel for breakfast growing up. The Chinese call it “xi▪fan” (稀飯), which literally translates into “sloppy rice.” That’s because that’s exactly how it is made. Mother would just boil the leftover rice with some water until the rice grains began breaking down, and the entire slop thickened up. We ate xifan with a variety of preserved meats and vegetables ,including salted fish, fried pork “song” (肉鬆), and pickled mustard tubers. It was not a sumptuous breakfast by any means, but it was a traditional breakfast indeed.

Rarely, however, had I had the chance to eat Chiu Chow-style sloppy rice. A specialty of this eastern Guangdong city (today: Chaozhou; 潮州), the local style of sloppy rice is made by cooking the rice in a savory broth just so briefly, so that the rice grains do not break down, and the broth remains clear and thin. Some people call it “pao▪fan” (泡飯), which literally translates as “soaked rice.”

On the menu at Flushing’s Chao Zhou Restaurant, it is called “rice soup.” Today I ordered the “Rice Soup with Salted Fish and Minced Pork” ($6). It arrived looking like a steamy bowl of chicken broth, but stirring the bottom with my spoon, the rice surfaced to the top like gold dust. The salted fish—pomfret I suppose—had a strong and pungent smell, but that’s what salted fish is supposed to smell like. Combined with minced lean pork, which is mild in flavor, it is a perfect match of opposite flavors.

Is this a rice or soup dish? That’s a debate for the ages. Compared to the xifan that I grew up with, Chiu Chow rice soup is so thin that it eats like a soup. But unlike the Cantonese congee, in which the rice is boiled until the grains nearly dissolve completely, each grain of rice is firm and distinct, just like eating rice. However you categorize it, this slop is packed with sumptuous flavors such that I could look forward to eating it every morning.

Chao Zhou Restaurant is located at 40-52 Main Street, Flushing, Queens.

Meritage: 2003 St. Supéry Élu

2007-09-21T13:56:00.000-07:00

On my visit to Napa Valley last summer, I stopped by St. Supéry Winery in Rutherford for the first time. The place immediately impressed me for its graceful and slightly irreverent aura—the apotheosis of the California spirit, in my opinion. The wines, no less, were memorable.

Even though St. Supéry has quite a reputation with their white wines, I took an immense liking for the Élu, the winery's proprietary red wine. It is a so-called “Meritage” wine—a word (from "merit" and "heritage") coined by Napa Valley wineries to mean wines made from Bordeaux type grapes grown in the valley. For reds, they are cabernet sauvignon, merlot, cabernet franc, petit verdot, and malbec. For whites, sauvignon blanc and semillon.

Like Bordeaux, the proportions of grapes used in a Meritage may vary from year to year, from winery to winery. In some years, some grapes are left out as well. As a result, Meritage wines are as varied as the wineries themselves, and through them you can learn a lot about the winemaker's philosophy—more so than from a varietal wine like merlot or cabernet sauvignon.

The 2001 Élu that I bought last year (67% cabernet sauvignon, 26% merlot, 3% cabernet franc, 4% petit verdot) is a balanced and intense wine with a ripe bouquet and fruity palate. Neither spicy nor effervescent, it is eminently smooth with soft tannins. Even though I would recommend drinking it now, I plan to keep a couple of bottles for five years and see how it will have matured at that time.

I came back to St. Supéry this year to sample the newly released 2003 Élu (75% cabernet sauvignon, 18% merlot, 4% petit verdot, 2% cabernet franc, 1% malbec). I liked this one even more than the 2001. To start, the 2003 has a soft, elegant bouquet that suggests this is something special. Then, in the palate, the wine starts with a nice combination of fruits and nuts, with a little spice piqued by moderate tannins. The hint of oak is neither contrived nor overpowering, and minutes after the initial sip, the palate still bursts with spring fruits of berries and cherries. The 2003 Élu is something to be enjoyed on special occasions. Yet, I wouldn’t rule out just sitting back with it on its own as a self-indulgent splurge. I am saving some bottles of this for ten years.

St. Supéry Winery is on Route 29 in Rutherford, California.

Brandy Ho's, San Francisco

2007-09-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

San Francisco has some really unique Chinese restaurants, but don't look for them smack in the middle of Chinatown. Rather, consider looking "outside the box."

Start with Brandy Ho’s, located next to North Beach where the Italian restaurants are. It proclaims itself as a “peasant” Hunan restaurant, but at first glance the menu seems like another tourist trap. There are the predictable standbys of Sweet And Sour Pork and Beef And Broccoli, and it occasionally tries to lead you on with a fancy name like “Hunan Gon-Pou Chicken.” However, if you bother to read the description of that dish, you get the quick sense that it is just another iteration of Kungpao Chicken.

But deeper inside the menu exists an altogether different adventure: “smoked meats” made in-house. Meat-smoking is a Hunan specialty. In Chinese it is called “larou” (waxed meats), which is a method of preserving whole cuts of meat by drying and smoking them thoroughly so that they end up looking like blocks of wax. Almost any kind of meat can be “waxed”: pork, fish, chicken.

I order the "Smoked Ham" lunch special. The meat is sliced thin, and stir-fried with carrots, green peppers, and bamboo shoots. You can choose to have it prepared mild, medium, or extra spicy. I ask for medium, and the dish arrives suitably hot by adding a few dollops of fermented chili paste. The execution of the dish, by using carrots, green peppers, and bamboo shoots, is purely Americanized form. Even the fermented chili paste lacks true authenticity because Hunan peasants would have used fresh or whole chilies instead.

But my Smoked Ham dish also shows unmistakable Chinese characteristics. It is not draped under a heavily sauce, so that the flavors of the ingredients have a chance to stand out. The smoked ham itself is moist and tender, exuding a delightful aroma more pungent than American ham but less cloying than Cantonese charsui pork. Overall, it is a well-balanced, excellent Chinese-American fusion dish.

The lunch special also comes with hot and sour soup, onion pancakes, and pickled Napa cabbage.

Brandy Ho’s is at 217 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, California.

On On: On the Cake Noodle

2007-09-07T14:12:00.000-07:00

In Chinatowns everywhere you can get chow mein, lo mein, stir-fried noodles. But only in Honolulu can you get “cake noodle.”

The name is intriguing: is this a cake or a noodle? Turns out it’s both. Cooked egg noodles are pan-fried with a weight placed on top, so that it comes out looking like a cake. The noodles are fried slowly so that the outsides are brown and crispy, while the center remains firm and al dente. To serve, the cake noodle is cut into square pieces, and then topped with a sauce or some sort of stir-fry.

Invented by Cantonese immigrants who settled in Honolulu, cake noodle closely resembles classic Cantonese chow mein. However, by cutting it into square pieces, cake noodle is somewhat suggestive of American rice cakes, or even instant noodles right out of the package.

At On On Chinese Restaurant in Honolulu, a Cantonese place that claims to be cake noodle’s inventor, I order one with “Minute Chicken.” It is a simple stir-fry of white meat (chicken breast) and “choy sum,” the local word for what we call yu choi on the mainland. What makes it a “minute” is that the meat is cut into small pieces so that it only needs one minute of cooking inside a hot wok.

The dish is a little heavy on the soy sauce, which is the only seasoning I can detect. The cake noodle itself is about a half inch thick, browned nice and crispy on both sides, but cooked too soft to start so that the center does not have much of a bite to it. Oh, well, it’s not high class dining, but the ingenuity in creating the cake noodle, be it a take on chow mein or imitation of American rice cake, makes it an interesting discovery.

On On Chinese Restaurant is located at 1110 Mc Cully Street, Honolulu, Oahu.

Kona Joe Coffee

2007-09-06T14:26:00.000-07:00

I didn’t come to Hawaii looking for coffee on this trip, but while grocery shopping for my stay, I came across this brand, Kona Joe Coffee, on sale at the Kaneohe Safeway.

Kona Joe markets its coffee as if it were a wine. “We believe coffee is like wine,” reads the back of the package. “We even grow it like the best vineyards.” As a pioneer in the industry, Kona Joe is one of the first coffee growers to put their coffee bushes on trellises. That is, the bushes are spread out along wires, allowing each plant to receive optimal sunlight. This produces, theoretically at least, more sugars in the beans and therefore more flavors in the coffee.

While Kona Joe is certainly good coffee, I am not sure if it is all that different from other Kona coffees on the market. The medium roast that I bought is mild, nutty, and slightly acidic, with a rich sweet aroma and long smooth finish. The beans are pale and not oily at all--excellent. An 8 ounce package costs $16, which amounts to $32 per pound. That, admittedly, is very expensive for everyday drinking.

Some people think Kona coffee is overrated. The consensus among them is that the flavors are too mild. For me, this is actually the best quality about it. A mild coffee allows you to savor its complex and penetrating flavors, without your tastebuds being overwhelmed by the extra oils, bitterness, and even astringency that come as result of longer roasting. Yeah, I know there is a tendency to believe a darker coffee to be the tastier, but for Kona coffee I prefer medium roast.

To serve Kona coffee, I like adding low fat (not skim) milk. The fat not only neutralizes the acidity, but also enlivens many of the coffee’s subtle characteristics. However, full milk and half-and-half are both too rich for Kona's delicate flavors. And I don’t add sugar, because it also covers up those precious qualities that make Kona coffee such an enjoyment in the morning.

While I generally maintain a "To Each Their Own" attitude toward how people take their coffee, I believe there are optimal ways of serving it. Just as white wines should be chilled and red wines go with steaks, Kona Joe may be right after all: Treat your coffee like you would treat your wine. For mild flavored Kona, buy a medium roast, and don’t instinctively add cream and sugar into every cup.

Trader Vic’s Mai Tai on United Hawaiian Flights

2007-09-05T15:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it’s not like United installed a Trader Vic’s in the plane’s galley. Rather, they merely loaded his famous mai tai mix onto the beverage cart. But what mighty good mai tai it is. On flights between the mainland and the Islands, you can order one or three of this to get your mood right.

I have always found it difficult to describe a good mai tai. It has the tanginess of lime and the sweetness of orange, with layers upon layers of softness, subtleness, and sensuousness. But I never felt it tasted anything tropical--something you would naturally expect from a drink that instantly conjures up images of palm trees swaying along the white sands of Waikiki.

Wall Street Journal columnist Eric Felten wrote, the mai tai is not native to Oahu but rather Oakland, home of the original Trader Vic’s. The cocktail’s association with the Islands is purely marketing genius. While many people wrongly assume it as a concoction of tropical fruits like mango, pineapple, and papaya, the real culprits are sugar, lime, orange curacao, and an almond flavored syrup called orgeat. A good jigger of dark rum is also key.

I presume it’s the orgeat that had baffled me in the past. The nutty flavor, slightly suggestive of marzipan, and the taste of citrus make for an unusual combination. And indeed, there is nothing tropical about a real mai tai. Almond, a relative of peach, is not a tropical fruit, as are neither lime nor orange. In that regard, mai tai may be more of a quintessential California drink, because all of these these fruits grow abundantly here.

But that’s just academics. The reality is, when you go to Hawaii, you have a mai tai--a sensuous concoction of fruits, nuts, and sugar. Cool, cosmopolitan, a classic.

United BOB: Trader Vic's Turkey Sandwich

2007-09-02T10:23:00.000-07:00

After working in Washington for the week, my trip home started with a two hour air traffic delay at Dulles Airport. A line of thunderstorms up and down the Appalachians halted all westbound traffic. Our flight was packed, as everyone wanted an early start to the Labor Day weekend. My upgrade did not clear, but I was able to score an exit row seat so in the least I had decent leg room to stretch out and squeeze in a few more hours of work. As well, I enjoyed a nice meal that I assembled for myself.

Dinner in coach is nothing romantic these days. Free hot meals are gone, unless you are flying Continental, so you are left to your own devices. My meal today started with beer and pretzels from the beverage cart. I chose Heineken instead of Miller Genuine Draft, which I generally get. The flight attendant was nice to offer it to me free, waiving off the “beverage voucher” I had in hand.

I then bought one of those buy-on-board food items, lovingly termed “BOB” on flyertalk. I chose the Mesquite Turkey Sandwich, designed by Trader Vic’s. It was described in the inflight magazine this way: “Mesquite turkey breast topped with cheddar cheese, bacon, tomato, iceberg lettuce, and a Dijon mustard/mayonnaise, served on an Asiago roll.”

The sandwich had a nice, fresh taste, not overpowering in anyway, the least of which is the smoke. I would have preferred a smokier flavor in the turkey, but for $5 can you really complain? The Asiago roll had a delectably firm texture to it, which was nice when compared to the many soggy sandwiches I had had in the past.

I saved half a can of the Heineken to drink with the sandwich. Beer and smoked turkey are a good match for each other. Maybe a pinot noir would have worked well, too, but they didn't have that on the beverage cart—only your popular cabernet.

Just as I finished the sandwich, a flight attendant came by with coffee—perfect timing. United has served Starbucks onboard for at least ten years and running. I took my coffee black. What blend was it? I don’t know, but it was smooth and eminently drinkable. For a Strabucks Skeptic like me, that’s a compliment.

For dessert, I brought out of my carry-on bag a red apple and package of Walker’s chocolate cookies filched from the Red Carpet Club. The apple was surprisingly juicy and crunchy—surprising because apples are generally terrible in the summer because they are not fresh but holdovers from last season. It’s almost Labor Day—are apples coming in season already?

Banh Mi: Les Givral Cafe, Houston

2007-08-03T12:48:00.000-07:00

Like so many downtowns around the country, central Houston is undergoing a profound metamorphosis. Blocks of old derelict buildings are being razed to make way for posh new condos. While this is nice for making the neighborhoods livable again, inevitably a lot of local history and color are lost in the process.

Houston’s Vietnamtown is one of those places fading to the force of gentrification. Settled in the late 1970s by refugees from the Vietnam War, this area in the southwest corner of downtown Houston was the second chance to life for thousands of immigrants. But over the years, the Vietnamese gradually moved out, particularly to a gleaming new “Little Saigon” on Bellaire Boulevard at the western edge of the city. Soon, Vietnamtown became a vestige of its former self.

One of the symbols of Vietnamtown’s heyday is a sandwich shop called Les Givral Café, on Midvale Avenue. Recently relocated and renovated, it sparkles with a bright and cheery attitude that stands in contrast to the other businesses that have grown old and tired. Yet, the Vietnamese sandwiches, banh mi, are as good as ever.

Banh mi actually refers to the sandwich bread itself. It is an imitation of the French baguette, made with rice and wheat flours (an illegal combination for baguettes in France). They help create a lighter dough and softer texture, with a crust that is as crunchy as rice crackers. Into the banh mi goes any assortment of meats, vegetables, and even tofu. On top, the usual garnish includes chilies, cilantro, pickled carrots, and sliced cucumbers. Together, the sandwich forms a full meal by melding an entrée with a salad into one compact package—a true street food.

I ordered a shredded chicken banh mi—grilled white meat pulled by hand, and given a shake of ground black pepper. The contrasts of the flavors and textures were delightful, but certainly surprising given that it is such a simple sandwich. The crunchiness of the crust is balanced by the softness of the dough. The warmth of the meat is matched by the coolness of the vegetables. And the freshness of the cilantro is perked by the spiciness of the chilies.

Today, yuppies are moving into Vietnamtown. Les Givral is looking less like an ethnic place and more like a cozy neighborhood hangout. People even come in with their laptops to surf the web on their laptops while chowing down a banh mi. This does not mean, however, that Les Givral has compromised the food in order to satisfy American tastes. On the contrary, its popularity with the younger generation may be the true legacy of Vietnamtown, outlasting the Vietnamese themselves.

Blue Crab Season on the Chesapeake Bay

2007-07-26T07:26:00.000-07:00

Summertime. Time of clam bakes, lobster rolls, and seafood abundance up and down the east coast. On the Chesapeake Bay, it is the time for blue crabs, the feisty crawler that is the highlight of so many wonderful summers I have spent on this side of the country.

Blue crabs are a little small for my taste, and not nearly as flavorful as our beloved Dungeness on the west coast. But they are lots of fun to eat nevertheless, especially when you get one of those with the golden roe. Sweet and silky, it is a heavenly treat. And with some skill with the wooden mallet, you can extract a decent amount of meat from them.

At the Crab Deck on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, you get the blue crabs steamed. Sure the kitchen cooks up a few other dishes along the way, but everybody knows to just get the steamed crabs. You order them by the half or full dozen, with each one caked with a generous coating of Old Bay seasoning.

We ordered the crabs six at a time. After they were finished, we ordered six more. This way, each crab was steaming hot and succulent—the perfect way to have it. As the afternoon wore on, our piles of shells got bigger and higher, and our cups of beer got drained, filled, and drained again. Can summer be any more pleasant?

We also ordered some steamed clams, two types actually: cherrystone and soft shell clams. I liked the cherrystone—large, meaty, and bursting with a briny flavor. I also liked the soft shell, called steamer clams elsewhere. They reminded me of geoduck. Besides steaming, I could imagine these clams roasted over coals, with a dousing of ketchup just as the shells open up, and then roasted some more. I could definitely eat those all summer.

Crab Deck is located in Kent Narrows on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, on U.S. 50/301 between Kent Island and Prospect Bay.

Brown Water, Greenville

2007-07-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

Among the first things I noticed when I checked into the Holiday Inn Express here, just outside of town in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, was the dirty toilet. Or so I thought. After giving it a quick flush, it was filled back up with the same brown water. And turning on the faucet, out flowed more brown water.

This was going to be one of those nightmare hotel stories, I thought, but for a national chain like Holiday Inn Express, surely I could have expected higher standards. I first suspected that maybe the storm runoffs may have gotten into the water system. This was the summer in the South after all, where thunderstorms are everyday occurrences. While driving over from Memphis just about an hour before, I had encountered a storm so severe that for fifteen minutes I had to slow down to 15 miles per hour because of the winds and rain.

I went to the front desk to tell them about my situation, but before I could finish my sentence, the manager smiled and pointed to a placard placed next to her. On it was the message: “The Water You See in the Bathroom is Normal.” The water is brown in Greenville, she said, and they’re proud of it.

According to local authorities, Greenville gets its water from an aquifer east of the Mississippi River, not from the river itself. The water filters through several ancient cypress swamps, picking up dissolved particles of decayed vegetation thousands of years old. While other municipalities installed microfiltration systems to clarify their water, Greenville residents repeatedly rejected referendums to buy one themselves, preferring their eau naturale, natural.

So I went back to my room and took a shower. The soap lathered up nicely in this brew of ancient woods. The water was so soft that my skin felt smooth and supple as if it were treated with superior moisturizer. And the shampoo rinsed off the hair nicely, leaving it full and bouncy without the need of a conditioner.

Later, I made green tea in the kitchenette. The brown water turned it looking like black tea, but the taste was sweet like nectar. This was indeed excellent water—from the tap no less!

B Plus for explus: Denver to Memphis in a CR7

2007-07-06T13:27:00.000-07:00

This was my first time flying in an explus aircraft, United Express’s 66-seat regional jet fitted with six first class seats. Since its introduction in 2004, I have not had the opportunity to travel to a city served by explus. Until now. I flew from Denver to Memphis on my way to the Mississippi Delta.

I have always enjoyed United’s marketing of explus. The illustrated ads are especially appealing, like the one showing passengers sitting on a big butterfly flittering around the sky. The message of the ad is simple: flying can still be fun and fanciful. Never mind the lost bags, air traffic delays, and being packed like sardines to the back of the plane. This regional jet flight is unlike any other.

Oh really. But I try not to be that skeptical as I stepped into the CRJ-700 for the first time. I had the “A” seat in Row 1, which I liked immediately because there was so much leg- and headroom. I say headroom because the older CRJ-200s, which are built out of the same fuselage but with the floor set higher, feel more cramped even to a 5’8” short guy like me.

And having first class was definitely nice. There was even a light meal despite the fact that the galley is not equipped with an oven. Once we reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant came through first with a beverage, and then went back to prepare the snack box. I liked how the contents were arranged like a bouquet.

I normally do not like pre-prepared foods, but some of the stuff in the snack box was pretty tasty. The pretzel sticks dipped in honey-mustard were delightful, especially the punch from the mustard seeds. I am more surprised by the tinned pasta salad. Whether or not the fact that it was manufactured in France made any difference, the pasta was neither soggy nor oily, and the flavors of the mushrooms, olives, beans and herbs all tasted distinct and vibrant.

It’s not a mainline jet, but flying on thinner routes, explus gets a B Plus.

Lost in Transition -- A Sleepy Transcon Flight

2007-06-05T15:36:00.000-07:00

I finished my business at Book Expo on Saturday afternoon, so I spent that evening hanging out with friends in the Meat Packing district. Evening turned into night, and then it was the morning. We drained the Absolut, Maker’s Mark, and a cheap bottle of Brut. At 4, the music was still loud, but because my flight to L.A. left at 7, I had to get to JFK.

This was my first time in Pennsylvania Station during the wee hours in the middle of the weekend. I was surprised to find so much traffic still going on. On the L.I.R.R. level of the train station, I joined other bleary-eyed “B&T crowd” beneath the departure board, waiting for the track number to post.

These days, New York simply feels like a more congenial city compared to how it was the first time I visited, 20 years ago. I got a sense of that when the young person sitting next to me on the floor politely warned me right before throwing up the evening's take of booze and beer. And as reassurance that New York is indeed a friendlier place, a passerby quickly came over with a stack of paper towels from the janitor’s cart. I helped clean up the mess, and then parted our ways as I boarded my train for Jamaica. Even though this was early June and there were still three weeks left of spring, it already felt like summer in the city.

My flight to L.A. this time felt special because it carried a lot of publishing people going home from Book Expo. I noticed quite a few familiar faces as I walked down the aisle to claim my seat. But why did we all take such an early flight, at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning, instead of later on? We Angelenos think alike--after a week in New York, we could not wait to get home.

Once I settled into my seat, the adrenaline that carried me through the night was drained completely out of me. Even before we took off, I was out like Maccabees’ lamp on the ninth night. I did manage to snap a photo of the passenger cabin while we were still at the gate. It shows the huuuge amount of legroom I had. For those in the know, it was Row 9, with no need to elaborate further.

That was all I remembered from the flight, because I slept nearly the entire way. I did wake up for breakfast, but I don't remember much of what I ate. Instead, I have this menu below to go back on.

(from the menu)

Featured Cocktails

Bellini

Lots of places serve this famous drink, but few use the correct ingredients-light sparkling wine and white peach puree. But that's exactly what we've done, so give this refresher a try!

Kir Royale

The Kir Royale is a contemporary cocktail mixing Cassis with Champagne for a delightfully rich and effervescent drink.

Main Course

Florentine quiche with Hollandaise sauce

Sautéed turkey sausage, Canadian bacon and silver dollar potatoes with fresh seasonal fruit.

Prior To Arrival

Turkey and roast beef deli plate

Cheddar cheese, grapes and vegetable crudité with ranch dressing.
Walker’s Chocolate chip cookies

A Taste of Old Shanghai -- Dexingguan Restaurant (德興館)

2007-06-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

Shanghai is a mad place these days, with soaring skyscrapers and the stock market soaring higher still. Likewise the restaurant scene is jolted with hyperkinetics—there isn’t anything you want to eat that money cannot buy. But I find Shanghai’s trendiest places, like many self-described “educated” Shanghaiers, generally lacking in substance. The most delightful aspects of Shanghai cuisine, meanwhile, remain in the province of traditional restaurants held over from the pre-communist era.

On the final evening of this China trip, I took a taxi through chaotic rush hour traffic, whizzing through narrow streets that I didn’t know could accommodate both cars and people on bikes and feet, and arrived in a 1930s neighborhood of low-rise wooden homes and shops. I stepped out into a busy corner, and in front of me stood a three story restaurant bathed in lights, shining like a towering beacon. The place was called De▪xing▪guan (德興館), one of the most celebrated Shanghai-style (上海幫; shang▪hai▪bang) restaurants in town.

Dexingguan’s claim to fame is a dish called Black Sea Cucumber in Shrimp Roe Sauce (蝦子烏蔘; xia▪zi▪wu▪sen). These are not small, pickle sized sea cucumbers that you can buy in Chinese shops stateside, but rather a huge rascal of a thing, about ten inches long, and weighing over a pound. It is not cheap either. At a price of RMB 25 per 50 grams, a single black sea cucumber sets you back RMB 200 (about US$25).

Sea cucumber is flavorless, so the quality of the sauce is paramount to the quality of the dish. Shanghai cuisine tends to be on heavy side—sugary with lots of oil, and this dish was no exception. The sauce, constructed from oil, sweet bean paste, and the roe of local river shrimp, could hardly be described as low calorie, low cholesterol, and low fat. Slathered liberally onto the black sea cucumber, which was steamed into firm and wriggly perfection, the dish was presented on the table like a steaming lump of gelatin.

I never understood the role of the shrimp roe, which look like little green grains of sand. You could hardly make them out from the brownish sauce, and since it doesn’t have much flavor either, I could only conclude that they were added to give the dish a fancier name. I must admit, however, that the shrimp roe do add some grittiness to the texture to the sauce, which seems like the “right” contrast to the slipperiness of the sea cucumber. Maybe that was the role shrimp roe.

I also ordered several other local specialties. For appetizer, I had Drunken Chicken (醉雞; zui▪ji) and two types of pickles. Drunken Chicken is always a personal favorite of mine. This one was delicious, but not so different from the authentic versions I have eaten at various Shanghai-style restaurants in America.

I also ordered a fish head casserole, one of Dexingguan’s prided but less famous specialties. The fish head was of a carp, fed on grass, with a flavor not too unlike eating fresh-cut grass straight up. It was something to get used to, but I loved the soft texture of the fish and the rich aroma of the broth.

There are many branch locations of Dexingguan throughout Shanghai proper. The original location is at 29 Dong▪men Road, in the southern fringe of downtown.
德興館 --上海市南外灘東門路 29號

Pine Crane Pavilion (Songhelou; 松鶴樓), Suzhou

2007-05-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

In the heart of Suzhou is a remarkable bazaar stretched along two parallel streets: Guan▪qian▪jie (觀前街) and Tai▪jian▪nong (太監弄). Among the scores of silk shops, department stores, and throngs of gawkers and shoppers, there are several of the city’s most illustrious restaurants. Among them, Song▪he▪lou (松鶴樓), meaning “Pine Crane Pavilion,” stands out as the grandest and most famous. Specializing in traditional Suzhou cooking (蘇幫菜; su▪bang▪cai), a variation of Jiangzhe cuisine, the restaurant has been in business since 1757, serving host to emperors and ordinary folk like me in search of links to the past.

Songhelou is the creator of “Squirrel Fish” (松鼠魚; song▪shu▪yu), a fried boneless fish dressed with a sweet-and-sour sauce. It is one of the most famous Chinese dishes, but also one of the most difficult to make. Emperor Qianlong (1711-1799) tasted it while on his way touring southern China, and praised it to no end. It starts with a whole “mandarin fish” (桂魚; gui▪yu), a type of freshwater perch. You can spot a mandarin fish in the market by the brown spots on its tail. The fish is completely deboned with a cleaver in a manner difficult to describe without pictures, but the result is a boneless fish with the head and tail still attached. And the meat is cut in such a way that after being coated with flour and deep-fried, it resembles a squirrel. The sweet-and-sour sauce is ketchup-based. Though not my favorite, it has a nice tanginess without being exceedingly acidic.

The two other dishes I ordered were both “drunken” but of altogether different flavors. The first was called “Ao▪you Chicken” (奧油雞; ao▪you▪ji), which was the local take on Shanghai’s Drunken Chicken. It was straightforward enough: boiled chicken marinated in salt and Shaoxing rice liquor, as far as I could tell.

The second dish, which I ordered on account of the poetic name alone, was loosely translated as: “A Liquored Life; A Dreamy Death” (醉生夢死; zui▪sheng▪meng▪si). It turned out to be a bowl of periwinkles with a few clams thrown in. As alluded by the name, they were marinated in Shaoxing while still alive, and then cooked. Star anise gave the dish a touch of dry and sweet flavor. To eat the periwinkles, you have to hold one between your fingers and suck out the inside. Sometimes you need to spit out the little hard flap that gets in the way. But no biggie, they were delicious and lots of fun to eat—especially enjoyable with a cold beer.

In China, people eat dinner early. By the time I arrived Songhelou at around a quarter of eight, they had already run out of rice. The waiter told me, “In honestly, people around here finish eating by eight.” To have my starch, I ordered a rather fancy stir-fry of pearl barley, river shrimp, and gingko nuts. Together with Squirrel Fish, the meal was beyond rich. As an ordinary folk, I imagined it was a meal for the emperor.

Little Blue Whale Restaurant (小藍鯨; xiao▪lan▪jing), Nanjing

2007-05-24T09:28:00.000-07:00

Around the corner from the Crowne Plaza in central Nanjing is Wangfu Broad Street (王府大街; wang▪fu▪da▪jie), a boulevard filled with bars and restaurants. Although it’s not New York’s 54th Street or L.A.’s “Restaurant Row,” the collection of eateries features an eclectic mix of the trendy and the traditional. What I really like about the place is that much of these restaurants cater to the locals and not the tourists. So, no matter where you go, you can expect good food with a good local flair.

Somewhere in the middle of Wangfu Broad Street, I came up to a signboard that read “Home Cooking Served Here.” So I went in. The waitress greeted me and pointed to several glass aquariums lining the wall. “We only serve fresh fish from the Yangtze. Are you familiar with Lower Yangtze cuisine?” Obviously, she knew I was not from around here.

I said I was willing to try anything, so show me the menu.

You could tell this was a privately owned restaurant, because unlike the state-owned places, the waitress actually cared about the service and the food. She turned out to be the daughter of the owner, who was the kitchen in the back. Thoroughly she explained the menu, which included a good number of Lower Yangtze dishes that I immediately recognized, but others required a bit of explanation:

“The loach we use in our restaurant weighs about a kilogram, so it’s fairly large. It is simmered with fermented-chili-and-bean paste, tofu, and cellophane noodles. The dish comes with potstickers, which you eat together like soup and bread.”

“The meatballs are made with ground white pork and ji▪cai (薺菜; a type of dandelion), and then cooked in a casserole with black tree fungus, sliced jinhua ham, and cellophane noodles.”

“The braised chicken is cooked in soy sauce and rock sugar for two hours. My father likes to add a shot of Shaoxing rice liquor at the beginning, which creates a penetrating flavor. It’s a family recipe.”

“I also recommend chrysanthemum stems (蘆蒿; lu▪hao), just stir-fried with julienne dried stinking tofu and salt. If you’ve never been to Nanjing until now, you’ve never had this before because only in Nanjing during springtime can you find chrysanthemum stems.”

I’ll have them all. Plus the foil-roasted chicken wings, the stir-fried nira with river shrimp, the tofu earthenware hotpot, the …

Chongqing to Nanjing: Hot Breakfast Is Served

2007-05-22T07:49:00.000-07:00

I took an Air China flight from Chongqing to Nanjing. The flight, scheduled to depart at 8:00 am, was a typical Chinese domestic flight. The 1,000 mile journey down the Yangtze took just 2.5 hours to make, and came with a breakfast. That’s something you don’t see much in America anymore—a hot meal on a domestic flight. But this was China, where the airlines are still regulated and the fares controlled. So everyone got a hot breakfast. And what an eye opener it was!

The friendly flight attendants went down the aisle with two choices: “Chinese” or “Western.” Not feeling adventurous, I chose the Chinese. It was a plate of stir-fried noodles topped with a peppery stir-fry of sliced pork, fresh soybeans, and juliennes of pickled mustard tuber (zhacai). Blech.

I also got a look at the “Western” entrée that my lady seatmate had ordered. It looked like ordinary scrambled eggs with a grilled cherry tomato, bacon, and a sliver of hash browns. She took one bite and said it was totally disgusting. Turned out, the scrambled eggs had chopped napa cabbage in it, and by the looks of it, not all too fresh napa cabbage.

We also got a box of goodies to go with our entrées. The contents inside were the same no matter what we ordered: a bread roll—a strange combination to go with my Chinese noodles, I thought; a packet of chopped salted turnips—something Westerners probably wouldn’t know that it made their scrambled eggs taste better; and six longan wrapped in cellophane.

There was also a toothpick with a rather amusing message: “You Are Welcome To Travel By Our Plane.”

Dining Al Fresco, Chongqing Style

2007-05-20T18:44:00.000-07:00

Chongqing, sweaty, sultry, and skanky, sits smack the center of China. Located at the confluence of Jialing (嘉陵江) and Yangtze (長江) rivers, it is also the crossroads of Chinese society, a city of cascading hills, towering skyscrapers, and crowded tenements teeming with the best and worst of humanity—old and new, poor and rich, humble and proud, good and wicked. It is a city like no other in China.

Chongqing is also famous for its hot weather and hot food—San Francisco and San Antonio rolled into one. One thing you notice right away is that people prefer eating outdoors. At a vegetable market near my hotel, I sat down for lunch tasting some of the hottest dishes in all of China.

They were all classic Chongqing dishes. The first was Water Boiled Fish (水煮魚; shui▪zhu▪yu), a stew of sliced freshwater fish cooked in a seasoned broth covered with dried red chilies and Sichuan peppercorns. The stew was ladled over a bed of blanched yellow bean sprouts before serving. The words “water-boiled” are deceiving. This was not a bland dish by any means. Everything about it was hot, hot, hot!

Next was Tiger Skin Chilies (虎皮青椒; hu▪pi▪qing▪jiao) The name comes from the appearance of the pan roasted chilies, which become wrinkly and blistery in the searing heat, like the stripes of a tiger. The chilies are served simply with a dash of salt, soy sauce, and black rice vinegar.

The locals eat soft tofu (豆花; dou▪hua), served hot in its own whey, with these dishes in addition to plain rice. For some people, the tofu and the chili sauce served alongside are enough to call their entire meal. I trust the locals on this one—tofu is an effective way to cut down the heat of the chilies.

The Real Mapo Tofu and other Numbing Tidbits About Sichuan Cuisine

2007-05-18T08:09:00.000-07:00

Going to Chengdu without eating at the “Pockmark-face Lady’s” tofu restaurant is like climbing Mount Everest without taking a picture of yourself at the top. Otherwise known popularly as “Chen Mapo Tofu Restaurant” (陳麻婆豆腐川菜館), it is a must-do in the itinerary of any lover of Chinese food.

As the name suggests, Chen’s is not a tofu restaurant but a mapo tofu restaurant. Only one dish matters there, the eponymous tofu dish that has earned its rightful place on the world’s culinary map. “Mapo” literally means “pockmark-face lady.” As the story goes, a woman surnamed Chen, whose face was marred with pockmarks, sold this tofu dish from her street stand in the mid-1860s. It was just a ramshackle place to grab a quick bite, but people were so enamored by her tofu that they soon referred to it by her nickname. Mapo Tofu was scribed into culinary history ever since.

The dish features cubed soft tofu simmered in a sauce of minced beef and fermented chili-and-bean paste. A layer of red oil burbles on top, and a dusting of ground Sichuan peppercorns rounds out on top. The dish has all the classic characteristics of Sichuan cooking: hot from the chilies, numbing from the Sichuan peppercorns, fragrant from the fermented chili and bean paste, and frittery from the fried minced beef. Who said tofu is bland?

I also ordered a dish literally translated as “Onion and Pepper Chicken” (蔥椒雞; cong▪jiao▪ji). The “onion” part was pretty straightforward—large sectioned scallions. And being in Sichuan, I expected the “pepper” part to mean Sichuan peppercorns; however, I didn’t expect to find a whole sprig of fresh Sichuan peppercorns adorning the top. This was the first time I had ever seen fresh Sichuan peppercorns. In America, as you may know, they cannot be imported without being first pre-roasted.

In this dish, the peppercorns were lightly fried with onions to make a fragrant oil infusion, which was then drizzled over diced boiled chicken. On the bottom was a bed of blanched yellow (soy) bean sprouts. The combination of the sweetness of the onions and the numbingness of the peppercorns was intense and magical. Wow!

I also had some fresh yu choy stir fried with fresh red chilies. Yu choy is a green vegetable whose seeds are used to make canola oil. The fresh leaves are tender and sweet, with stems that are crunchy and a tad bitter. All around the Chengdu countryside, I saw yu choy growing in abundance, their bushy flower plumes turning the fields into flickering waves of gold.

Chen Mapo Tofu Restaurant is located in central Chengdu, on Qinghualu 19.
陳麻婆豆腐川菜館 ▪ 四川成都市青華路 19號

Day Trip to Leshan -- Sichuan Province

2007-05-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

I took a day trip from Chengdu to see the Giant Buddha of Leshan (樂山), a stone sculpture carved out of a tall cliff facing a spot where three rivers converge. In 1996, it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and since 2001, it is the world’s largest Buddha following the destruction of the Buddhas of Bamiyan Valley in Afghanistan by the Taliban.

Legend tells the story of a local monk named Haitong who devoted his life to building the Buddha so that boaters would be protected from the rivers’ turbulent waters. And indeed the Buddha has accomplished that. The stones chiseled off the cliff were dropped into the rivers, slowing the currents such that the rivers became forever safe for sailing.

It is a two hour drive to Leshan. You could either take a bus or hire a car. The concierge at the Sheraton suggested a private van tour for RMB 2,200, or roughly $275. I went outside the hotel and found a taxi who agreed to take me there and back for RMB 600, plus tolls (about $75). So off I went.

There are actually a lot more things to see at Leshan than the Giant Buddha itself. On the hills behind the sculpture is a sprawling complex of Buddhist shrines and monasteries. There are also several hiking trails, gardens, and true to the Sichuan love for ambience, teahouses.

To get to the Buddha itself, you have to make a grueling hike up to the top of the sculpture. Then you walk down a steep staircase down to the feet, and then climb back from the other side. It was nearly three in the afternoon when I finished my climb. The taxi driver was waiting for me in the parking lot, as promised. I bought him lunch before heading back to the city.

We drove through the town of Leshan itself and found it a colorless assortment of stores and apartments. Nothing struck us as particularly appetizing, so we decided to just bear our hunger and head back. Then, across the street from the bus station at the outskirts of town, we came upon an eatery filled with local people. We stopped in.

I was overjoyed when I first glanced at the menu. I did not recognize a single dish on it because everything was local! The proprietor of the place was a saucy lady with a curvaceous smile. She recognized right away that I wasn’t a local. She didn’t believe me when I told her I was from Taiwan, so I elaborated that I came from Taiwan via America. That satisfied her, and she began answering my questions about the dishes and describing them in tremendous detail. She wasn’t really trying to hard sell me, but obviously she recommended much more dishes than the driver and I could possibly eat. But I happily obliged, not wanting to miss out on this opportunity to taste some real local flavor.

The food was delicious—simple and rustic, yet the flavors were pleasingly complex. It was true Sichuan cooking, deeply ingrained with the prosperous peasantry that has long inhabited this blessed land. And yet, despite the generally accepted reputation of Sichuan food, these dishes were not exceptionally hot. Yes, you see a lot of red chilies, but their use is controlled and balanced with the multitudes of flavors from the other ingredients.

Chengdu's Street Snacks

2007-05-15T13:36:00.000-07:00

In Chengdu, the provincial capital of Sichuan, there are many yummy things to eat. The city’s street snacks are especially appealing. Eateries and vendors line the streets and markets offering quick bites to go. Among the myriad of choices are these favorites of mine, classic street snacks that have now become symbols of the city’s colorful cuisine.

Cold Noodles (涼麵; liang▪mian) and Cold “Fun” (涼粉; liang▪fen) – Chengduers love hot foods from red chilies. But when the weather gets hot, they get their hot noodles cold. The cold noodles are mixed with a numbing-hot sauce made of sesame paste, dried red chilies, and ground Sichuan peppercorns. Blanched bean sprouts are garnished on top. The same dish can be made with noodles made from mung beans or konnyaku, a type of potato. These noodles are called “fun,” or fen in Mandarin. (In southern China, fun refers specifically to noodles made from rice.) Chengdu’s cold noodles and cold fun are the inspirations for Japanese cold noodles called “hiyashi chuuka” (ひやし中華), which translates as “Cold Chinese-style (Noodles).”

Mr. Zhong’s Dumplings (Jiao) (鐘水餃; zhong▪shui▪jiao) – Chengdu’s “Zhong Dumplings” look like the jiao dumplings found throughout China, so what’s the big deal with these? A local chef surnamed Zhong first made his famous dumplings in 1931 with an all-meat filling, as opposed to the northern style of mixing meat (usually ground pork) with a vegetable like napa cabbage. The dumplings are boiled in water and served with a peppery chili oil.

Mr. Lai’s Rice Ball (Yuan) Soup (賴湯圓; lai▪tang▪yuan) – Yuan is a rice ball made from sticky rice flour, and tangyuan, or rice ball soup, is a dish eaten primarily during the winter, in particular on the Lantern Festival 15 days after the Lunar NewYear. So, what’s the big deal with these rice balls in comparison to the other rice balls found throughout China? Nothing really, except for the name. Mr. Lai first made his dumplings on the streets of Chengdu in 1894. The original filling was ground black sesame. Today, other fillings include sweet ones like ground peanuts, and savory ones like meats and vegetables.

Beef Cold Cuts (夫妻肺片; fu▪qi fei▪pian) – Also called “Husband-and-Wife Beef Slices,” the beef, generally brisket and tripe half and half but can also be offal, is sliced thinly and served cold with a dousing of numbing-hot sauce made of sesame oil, red chilies, soy sauce, and Sichuan peppercorns. A sprinkling of peanut powder completes the dish. I first discovered fuqi feipian (pronounced foo-chee fay-pian) while in graduate school at Northwestern, at a place in Chicago’s Chinatown called “Lao Sze Chuan.” It was so lip-smacking good that I ordered it every time I went there.

Dan Dan Noodles (擔擔麵; dan▪dan▪mian) – On the surface, dan dan noodles doesn’t look like much—it’s just some noodles with a generous smattering peanut powder on top. But once you dig into it, you discover that there is a magical sauce of sesame paste, black rice vinegar, and pickled mustard tuber underneath. The flavor is perky and complex—sweet, savory, numbing, sour, and hot, all at the same time.

Tianxianglou -- Hangzhou

2007-05-14T12:15:00.000-07:00

Tianxianglou (天香樓), recently relocated to the newish Zhejiang Hotel in central Hangzhou, literally means “Pagoda of Heavenly Fragrance.” It is another pre-communist icon serving traditional Hangzhou fare. I came here to try two other famous Hangzhou dishes: Dongpo Pork and Shrimp with Longjing Tealeaves.

Dongpo Pork (東坡肉; dong▪po▪rou), named after the Song poet and the dish’s creator Su Dong▪po (蘇東坡; 1037-1101), is a sebaceous square of pork belly (bacon) slowly simmered in soy sauce, rock sugar, and cinnamon bark. Rich and sweet, soft and tender, it is the absolute dream of the meat lover. The connoisseur’s take on the dish is to first gather a whiff of the aroma. Dark and brooding, the scent is both sensuous and alluring. Then, breaking off a piece of the pork with your chopsticks, let the meat melt in your mouth and savor the contrasts of the firm skin, soft fat, and tender meat.

Shrimp with Longjing Tealeaves (龍井蝦仁; long▪jing▪xia▪ren) is light and ethereal—a complete 180 from the dark-and-brooking Dongpo Pork. Freshwater shrimp, which turn white when cooked, are stir-fried with a locally grown green tea called Longjing, also known as “Dragon Well.” The tea adds a bit of bitterness and nuttiness into the dish, which combined with the delicate and sweet flavor of the shrimp make this an instantly likeable dish.

I also ordered a dish of steamed stinking tofu with mature amaranth stems. I had never seen this dish before, so I asked the waitress about it. She explained that this is a classic peasant dish from the surrounding countryside. Stinking tofu, as the name suggests, stink because it is fermented like blue cheese. And when it’s steamed, it stinks more. Mature amaranth stems are so tough that the body cannot digest them. You are supposed to just chew these stems, suck up the creamy pulp, and then spit out the fibers. They have a slightly smoky flavor that can stand up to the brashness of the tofu.

To sop up all the juices and flavors of the dishes I ordered, I also got some steamed black wouwoutou made from buckwheat flour.

Tianxianglou is located at the Zhejiang Hotel, 447 Yan▪an Road.
浙江飯店 -- 杭州市延安路 447號

Louwailou Restaurant On West Lake, Hangzhou

2007-05-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

Hangzhou’s Louwailou (樓外樓) is one of China’s most renowned restaurants. Located on a scenic corner of West Lake, it is also one of the most beautiful. Equally famous are restaurant’s two signature dishes: Beggar’s Chicken and West Lake Vinegar Fish. Together with other classic Hangzhou dishes, they make Louwailou an icon of the city. On my visit, naturally, I dropped by and tasted them for myself.

The origin of Beggar’s Chicken (叫化雞; jiao▪hua▪ji), so the story goes, is owed to a beggar who once caught a chicken but had no kitchen to cook it in. So he dug a hole in the ground and buried it with some burning coals. Hours later, when he took the chicken out of the ground, he discovered that the skin and feathers had stuck to the mud, which he easily removed, leaving a pile of moist and tender meat that he quickly devoured because it was so good.

At Louwailou, a whole young chicken is first wrapped in caul fat and then lotus leaf, and then baked in a mud crust. Upon serving, waiter removes the mud and unwraps the package before everyone’s eyes. What you find inside is a delicate chicken so moist that with a little effort with the chopsticks, the meats fall entirely off the bones. And the flavor is light and floral, with scents of lotus leaf and soy sauce permeating the surrounding air.

West Lake Vinegar Fish (西湖醋魚; xi▪hu▪cu▪yu) is perhaps the quintessential Hangzhou dish. After all, it is named after the lake for which the city is renowned. The fish is a carp raised right there in the lake, split lengthwise and poached, not boiled, so as to preserve a tenderness as soft as whipped cream. A sweet and sour sauce made from Zhenjiang black vinegar is poured on top. The flavors are light and delicate, without weighty extras like oils and spices that can easily destroy the natural characteristics of the fish. Most amazingly, the grass-feeding carp does not have that earthy taste that makes most carp dishes so unappetizing.

I ordered two other dishes The first was fresh spinach braised in broth, fried garlic, and dried freshwater shrimp. It was a sumptuous vegetable dish that matches well with the meat dishes. The second was a noodle soup with fried “eel,” which is actually loach. The juliennes of loach, battered and fried, are sweet and crispy. They complement the firm thick noodles quite well.

Hangzhou’s dishes, I discovered, are remarkably mellow in flavor. This is the single characteristic that distinguishes Hangzhou cooking from nearby Shanghai, which tends to be oily and heavily seasoned. If I were to pick between the two, I would choose Hangzhou every time.

Louwailou is located right on West Lake, at 30 Gu▪shan Road
樓外樓 -- 杭州市西湖孤山路 30號

Shanghai-style Tangbao (湯包) -- Soup Dumplings

2007-05-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

On any stretch of street in Shanghai, whether it is in a restaurant or a sidewalk stall, you can find someone selling soup dumplings. Locals call them “tang▪bao” (湯包), while American foodies are more familiar with the term “xiao▪long▪bao” (小籠包), or “XLB” for short. But XLB refers specifically to dumplings served in little steamer baskets (xiaolong means “little baskets”), whereas tangbao refers to the entire category of dumplings stuffed with meat and most importantly, soup (tang) on the inside. In Shanghai, birthplace of the tangbao, there is a different type for every kind of appetite.

Around the Chenghuang Temple (城隍廟), a touristy area filled with restaurants and snack shops, I came across these huge, and I mean huge! soup dumplings served with a straw sticking out of them. The idea is to sip the soup through the straw. It’s quite a novel idea, but I’m not sure about the wisdom in sucking hot soup from a straw. Then there is the fact that the soup is essentially a fat laden consommé, so basically, you are sipping lard.

At another location in the temple, tangbao are sold in the form of pan-fried dumplings. They call these sheng▪jian▪bao (生煎包), which literally means “dumplings pan-fried from the raw.” That is, without boiling or steaming first, the raw dumplings are placed directly in the frying pan and fried in oil until the outer dough is golden and crispy. For RMB 5 you get a little sachet of 8 shenjianbao—enough for a heartwarming snack.

Lubolang Restaurant (綠波廊) -- Shanghai-style Dim sum

2007-05-10T16:46:00.000-07:00

In America, dim sum means a certain type of breakfast, brunch, or lunch, served in Cantonese restaurants, featuring little steamer baskets of dumplings, rice cakes, and chicken feet dished out by women pushing carts around the dining room. In China, dim sum (點心; dian▪xin) has a much broader meaning: snacks, period.

In Shanghai, snacks take on the form of flaky pastries, mostly sweet (there are a few savory ones as well), stuffed with ingredients such as red beans, lotus seeds, and candied fruits. Shanghai-style dim sum are generally sold in bakeries and confectioneries, but can also be found in some high-end restaurants. One such restaurant is Lu▪bo▪lang (綠波廊), at the Cheng▪huang Temple (城隍廟).

Located on an artificial lake in one of Shanghai’s most touristy districts, Luubolang looks like a dead-ringer for a tourist trap. But don’t let the crowds fool you. This place has been around since the Pearl of the Orient days, and the traditional dim sum it serves are true and authentic. Also, from the menu, there is a good sampling of Lower Yangtze cuisine.

Having come here after eating around numerous food stalls within the temple complex, I didn’t order much here. The stir-fried noodles with river shrimp and gingko nuts was a bit oily—true to the Shanghai way of cooking up things. The noodles were well made, with a nice firm texture. The gingko nuts had a nice medicinal flavor to it, slightly bitter, and the shrimp was sweet with a delectable crunchiness that can only come from freshness.

I also ordered braised shanghai cabbage with crab meat—a classic Shanghai dish. In a Chinese banquet, this dish would have been presented much more elaborately, but here at lunch, I was perfectly happy with it. Fresh shanghai cabbage are first blanched and then quickly braised in broth and crabmeat. The crab roe, which appear as red-orange clumps among the crabmeat, adds an extra touch of sweetness to the already sweet flavor of the river crab.

Lubolang is located inside the Chenghuang Temple complex, at the base of the “Crooked Nine Bridge” (九曲橋; jiu▪qu▪qiao), or by address at: 131 Yu▪yuan Road
綠波廊酒樓 -- 上海市豫園路 131 號

China Trip (April 2007): Sichuan and the Lower Yangtze

2007-05-09T17:33:00.000-07:00

Last month, I went to China’s Sichuan province and various cities of the Lower Yangtze. I wanted to taste the local cuisines and get a better understanding of the nuances of each place. It was quite a hectic trip—six cities, two thousand miles, and fourteen days. Along the way I met many interesting people as well as some of the rudest individuals I have ever met. Through them all, the sights, the sounds, and not the least the sensations of the great foods made for a most memorable trip.

My journey began in Shanghai after arriving in the evening of April 25th on the nonstop flight from San Francisco. After two days there, I took a train to Hangzhou, two hours away. Then I flew west to Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province. From there, a quick hop (by plane) to Chongqing, another hop to Nanjing, followed by Suzhou and Zhouzhuang, before coming back to Shanghai to stage for the return to America.

China is a fascinating place. I shall post periodically the interesting stuff I did and saw.

Happy Mid-Autumn Festival

2006-10-06T17:37:00.000-07:00

It’s autumn. The days are getting cooler and, here in southern California, the brushes are turning to a lighter shade of brown. It’s also the season of mooncakes, in advance of the Mid-Autumn Festival. For us Chinese, this is the dreaded time when boxes of mooncakes start piling up in our homes. Receiving a gift box of these is like getting the flu—we often pass it on to a “friend”, who in turn sends it on to another. Sounds like a game of musical chairs? You bet. The giving doesn’t stop until the day of the festival (this year, October 6). Whoever ends up with the mooncakes then has the misfortune of having to eat them.

Traditionally, these sugary parcels of gluttony were made of a filling of lotus seed paste and lard, baked inside a thin flour crust. Chinese bakeries mainly use vegetable oil these days, and while lotus seed continues to be popular, there’s also a wide range of fillings from pineapple and pine nuts to ham and shark fin. I used to love sampling all different kinds of mooncakes, but over the years my palates have changed such that the excessive oils and sugars don’t appeal much to me any longer. It’s a sign of age, I guess.

I am stuck with four boxes of mooncakes sitting untouched on the dining table. They include lotus seed paste, date paste, red bean paste, and one with five different kinds of nuts. Several have a salted duck egg yolk or two stuffed inside. Those I call “yuck” and “double yuck”. The strangest mooncake I got is the Green Bean “Pong”, a specialty of southern Fujian province and Taiwan, comprised of a flaky white crust and a sweet-savory filling of ground pork and green beans, a curious combination (and not all too appetizing, in my opinion).

I will end up sharing these mooncakes with my American friends. They seem to cherish them more than I do. One guy even says they go well with coffee.

Hmm, lotus seed and mocha java. Hmm…

Alex Twyman's Old Tavern Coffee Estate: Blue Mountains

2006-08-24T11:10:00.000-07:00

I was awakened in the morning by birds thumping on the roof. It was feeding time for the early birds, so the saying goes. Out in the morning air, the symphony of the birds and bugs from the night before had disappeared entirely, restoring the day to absolute tranquility once again.

Strawberry Hill’s dining room opened at 7:30 for breakfast. I was the first and only person to show up that early because I had arranged to meet Mr. Twyman at his coffee estate at 9:15. Strawberry Hill is known for its creative take on Jamaican cuisine, using local ingredients. From the menu I chose the eggs dish, a clever take on Eggs Benedict: Two poached eggs layered over sautéed calaloo and smoked marlin, and served with “bammies”—fried cassava cakes—instead of two halves of an English muffin. A thin, spicy mango chutney was drizzled on top, taking the place of the traditional hollandaise sauce. I liked it a lot. Tasting innovative dish like this always makes traveling such rewarding experiences.

Fortified with a glass of orange juice and a pot of Blue Mountain coffee, I was ready for the day.

Even though Mr. Twyman’s coffee estate was merely five miles from Strawberry Hill, the trip took 40 minutes through some torturous mountain roads. I was told to look for a gray Land Rover parked on the side of the road, because the farm house was not visible unless you got out of the car. Indeed, I spotted the SUV about a mile past the town of Newcastle and the Jamaica Defence Force training center.

Twyman’s coffee estate is a fully functioning family farm. The modest wooden cottage is located about forty feet down a steep incline, overlooking an impressive valley marked by gentle ridges and dots of coffee bushes. A few groves of bananas are scattered throughout the entire estate.

Much of the coffee roasting is done in the house, as are the sorting and the packaging. Mrs. Dorothy Twyman, a native-born Jamaican, is the house “roast master.” She monitors the roasts by taste, adding a touch of personality to an already superior coffee. The couple's eldest son David and his wife Mary Ann are assuming more of the day-to-day operations these days. In time they will take over the reins completely.

Mr. Alex Twyman himself is the self-described “Eccentric Cockney.” He produces the only “estate grown” coffee in Jamaica. He won the right to do so after a contentious legal battle with the Jamaican Coffee Board. While other Jamaican coffee growers must pool their crop into the “Jablum” brand, Mr. Twyman sells his own coffee under the “Old Tavern Coffee Estate” name. He makes only three different roasts of the same coffee: Mild, Medium, and Dark. A fourth product is a medium roast “Peaberries,” consisting only of malformed, single-valved beans sorted out of the harvest. Twyman’s does not make decaf, and good for him on that.

I bought a pound of Peaberries to take home. What is so special about it? Mrs. Twyman made me a cup to savor with some short bread and marmalade. The aroma was sweet and mellow, and the flavors subtle and light. Yes, Blue Mountain coffee is already light and mellow, but—Mrs. Twyman explained—peaberries have an incomparable touch of sweetness that yield a more complex cup of coffee. I agree.

Some people complain that Blue Mountain isn’t robust and flavorful, but I think that’s because they are drinking it the wrong way. Blue Mountain is vibrant with complex flavors only if you don’t add milk and sugar to it. A medium roast is optimal, not dark, because too dark the coffee contains too much oils and bitterness. And too light, on the other hand, the coffee does not get the full chance to develop its desirable nutty and aromatic qualities.

What I find most delightful about Blue Mountain coffee is that it goes better with savory foods than the conventional thinking of drinking coffee with sweets like desserts. Somehow, having a salty taste in my palate helps me really taste the coffee’s subtle qualities. If I were eating something sweet, I would choose a stronger or darker roast coffee. In this way, Blue Mountain coffee is a lot like an oolong tea. It is light, subtle, and complex—the king of coffees most deserving of its place at the top, without adding sugar, milk, or anything else to bring it down.

Strawberry Hill

2006-08-17T11:23:00.000-07:00

It was fate that led me up Strawberry Hill, a spa resort in the Blue Mountains outside of Kingston. I was on my way to visit Mr. Twyman’s coffee estate in Irish Town, but because I spent more time than planned hiking in the first half of the day, there was little time left in the afternoon for any meaningful tour. And since the mountain roads (“tracks” to the locals) were very difficult to drive on, I thought it would be best to spend the night in the mountains instead of going back to the city.

It was five in the afternoon when I arrived, more hungry than tired, and in need of a shower. I was immediately seduced by the beauty and serenity of the place. This being summer, the slow season, and a weekday, the place was less than half full. The front desk gave me the “local” rate of $300, a bargain.

Strawberry Hill sits squat on top of a lone hill amidst lush canopies of guavas and papayas. Although it is merely 15 miles by road from wicked Kingston, it felt like a whole world away. At 3,000 feet up, the air was cool and fresh, and tranquility reigned the day. I stood over an outlook and inhaled the sweeping panorama of the sun setting over Kingston. And stopping to catch a breath, I heard only leaves fluttering in the breeze.

Dinner in the dining room did not start until six, so I strolled around the grounds after my shower. For an upscale resort, Strawberry Hill is a casual yet sophisticated place. No ties, no gowns, no attitudes. There are also no rooms. Instead, there are 13 cottages built on the hill, their sizes ranging from studio suites to three-bedroom homes. My cottage was called “59 Steps,” a studio suite, so-named because there were 59 steps down the staircase to reach it. Like the other structures in the resort, it was built in the Georgian style, with high ceilings and shuttered windows that retrace Jamaica’s 18th century colonial roots. Inside, the cottage was tastefully appointed with simple mahogany furniture, a four-post bed, a fully equipped kitchenette, and a balcony that opened out to an amazing view of the city.

After dinner, I went back to my cottage and sat back on the balcony with a cup of hot coffee. The sun had gone down, and the serenity of the day was replaced by a stereophonic symphony of birds and bugs in the night. In the distance, city lights flickered in the hot and humid air below. Further out I saw the airport, its flashing strobe lights lining the runway, and also marking the harbor’s edge. Closer in, fireflies flitted about the bushes, blinking here and there, like the heartbeat of the jungle.

Through the evening I watched a thunderstorm approach the city from the south. At first, lightning appeared far over the horizon, but within half an hour it was ripping over the harbor. I sensed a downpour heading our way soon, but before it arrived I was lulled to sleep by the soft, ticklish breeze.

Oh Boy! The Obento Meal

2006-07-18T16:04:00.000-07:00

I always order the obento when flying into or out of Japan. For me, this is the only airline meal worth anticipating for. Alas, the quality of United’s in-flight catering has declined a lot during those years in bankruptcy. I remember the first time I had the obento, back in 2000. The entrée was meticulously prepared, and very tasty. What I liked the most was the piece of wagashi for dessert, the traditional tea sweet made from mashed white beans. This time, my obento had some misses, but was still quite good.

The appetizer course, which came in a small elongated box, contained the following: tuna with wasabi sauce, smoked salmon egg roll, pumpkin cake with red beans, baked chicken with pine seeds, braised beef, and fine white noodle (somen) topped with deep fried eggplant. All the ingredients were fresh and representative of late spring, with summer approaching just around the corner.

The main course came in a larger square box. I first tried the boiled shrimp (sunomono), which is served like shrimp cocktail—not very exciting. The entrée was a filet of yellowtail (buri) teriyaki, served with fresh ginger, broiled tofu, simmered shiitake mushrooms and carrots. Not only was the fish a bit dry, the classic symptom of overcooking, I felt the teriyaki sauce had too much mirin, which made the dish too sweet for my taste and overpowered the fish’s subtle flavors. Either that, or the chef was deliberately masking the less than top quality fish they had to work with. I finished the meal with steamed rice and pickles.

The obento of 2006 no longer served wagashi for dessert. Instead, I got a slice of lousy Eli’s hazelnut cheesecake. I never understood why Eli’s was so popular to begin with, and mixing a traditional Japanese meal with a western dessert is just plane cheesy. A definite thumbs down on that.

After all the dishes were cleared, the flight attendant brought me a nice hot cup of green tea. I had with me a couple of fresh lichi left over from a bunch I had bought in Taipei. I took them onboard specifically to eat after dinner. In my book, this is always the perfect way to end a dinner.

18 Hours In Hongkong

2006-06-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

The tea tour ended on Thursday afternoon, and everybody in the group except for me flew to Shanghai that night. Because I was headed to Taipei next, I needed to get to Hongkong. However, there were only two flights a week from Wuyishan, leaving on Wednesdays and Saturdays. After two weeks in China, I was eager to leave the country. So on Friday afternoon I flew to Guangzhou and took a bus to Hongkong, where I spent the night before continuing to Taipei Saturday afternoon.

Well, I actually did not venture into Hongkong Island itself. Instead, I stayed at the Holiday Inn in Kowloon, at a terrific location not far from Nathan Road and within earshot of Victoria Harbour, the Peninsula Hotel, and Chungking Mansions (not exactly a nice place, but in Hongkong a must-see). At the Star Ferry terminal after nightfall, I snapped a few views of the Hongkong skyline.

The next morning I ate dim sum at Super Star Seafood Restaurant, a popular local chain. I had eaten at another branch location before, and always liked its dim sum in cartoonish shapes. Not only were they fun to eat, but their quality was also quite good.

I ordered a pot of shui▪xian (水仙) tea, a type of oolong, instead of pu▪er (普洱) tea that I normally get with dim sum. That’s something I had learned from the Fujian trip—you don’t always have to drink puer with dim sum. Shuixian is well-matched with dim sum because it has dark and earthy characteristics more similar to puer than other oolong teas. As a matter of fact, shuixian is the second most popular tea, after puer, for dim sum in Hongkong.

Super Star is not one of those places that put their dim sum on roving pushcarts. Instead, you order from a colorful menu filled with traditional and interesting shaped dim sum. I clicked off three choices, my breakfast for today.

First came Fish Soup, made by slow-cooking cod and various herbal ingredients. It had a thick consistency, but yet a very mellow flavor. A dash of ground white pepper really drew out the subtleties of the fish. And because herbal ingredients were used, the soup could be eaten as a tonic—definitely a nourishing way to start the day.

Next the two other dishes—the Penguins and the Clown Fish—arrived together. The Penguins turned out to be Chaozhou-style fun gor (粉果; fen▪guo), made with a sticky rice flour wrapper on the outside and a filling of minced shrimp, mushrooms, and peanuts on the inside. The penguin’s “tuxedo” was the same sticky rice flour wrapper colored with black food dye. Very clever, and mighty tasty too.

The Clown Fish were pumpkin dumplings wrapped in sticky rice flour. The filling was a mixture of pine nuts, mashed pumpkin, and crème fraîche—a strange and definitely not classic combination of ingredients. The use of crème fraîche was especially interesting, because dairy is almost never used in Chinese food. It gave the dumplings a sweet-and-tart flavor that was a bit disconcerting. At least it was an honest attempt to innovate, but I doubt I will ever see this dish anywhere again.

This was a short stay in Hongkong. After the dim sum breakfast at Super Star, I checked out of the hotel and took the Airport Express to Chep Lap Kok for the afternoon flight to Taipei.

Spring Park Urai Resort -- Wulai, Taipei

2005-11-25T16:13:00.000-08:00

The town of Wu▪lai (烏來), tucked in a narrow green valley in the southern outskirts of Taipei, is famous for its interesting blend of aborigine culture and natural carbon springs. It is a quick day trip from the adrenaline filled city, or, for the locals, an ideal weekend getaway for some needed R&R. I came here on a weekday morning to bathe in solitude and sample some nouveau approach to Taiwanese cuisine.

I had first read about Spring Park Urai Resort (春秋烏來; chun▪qiu▪wu▪lai) in, of all places, a Japanese lifestyle magazine. It is one of the newer entrants to Wulai’s hot springs industry—designed in the boutique hotel concept, with luxurious comforts styled in the minimalist fashion, blending modernity right in with nature. The rooms and spaces are tastefully appointed with neutral woods, granite, and stones, lending an infectious radiance of warmth and welcome throughout.

On a Friday morning I took the MRT and then a taxi to get here, arriving before the first weekend crowds, so that I was left to the three men’s pools basically to myself, save for the birds, the trees, and the jade-colored river flowing alongside, to soak up the carbonate-based springs, which, unlike sulfur-based springs, is both colorless and odorless, and helps soothe the soul and clarify the senses.

After the bath, I skipped the other spa treatments and headed straight to the dining room. For lunch, I was particularly interested in the chef’s four-course “Wulai Classics,” which according to the menu is: “Sample the traditional flavors of local Wulai ingredients, As translated through the prism of the chef’s training in Italy, While you are surrounded by the natural beauty of Wulai, Making this an unique experience worth savoring.

The meal began with Deep-fried River Shrimp with Basil and Apple. The frittery pieces of batter-fried shrimp were lightly tossed with salt and pepper. The river shrimp were light and crunchy, with a delicate sweetness to complement the more floral sweetness of the basil. I didn’t care much for the apples—they were too tart, and cut too chunky to be too awkward to eat.

Next was “Magau” Chicken Soup, an absolute delight. Chickens raised in the wild always have a taste superior to farm-raised ones. This soup, a clear stock basically, was garnished with just a few sprigs of cilantro and a couple of black peppercorns. Black peppercorns were unique, because they hardly show up anywhere in Chinese and Taiwanese cooking. They gave the soup a spicy edge that perked up my appetite for the main course.

I was really looking forward to the Poached Trout Stuffed with Shiitake and Millet Mousse, the main event; however, it turned out a disappointment. Trout is a tender and mild-flavored fish. The chef poached it in rice alcohol, making it even more tender. That was the good part. The bad part, I didn’t like the use of millet as stuffing. While I understood the point of injecting a starch into the dish, I would have liked it more on the side instead of being layered between the fish. The millet was soggy and textureless, and flavor-wise there was nothing unique worth savoring.

The last course, a dessert, was Preserved Plum and Tea Jelly with Wild Berry. In the tradition of too many East Asian desserts I’ve tasted, this one was another vile attempt to transform a Western craft for the Eastern palate. As I saw it, the chef envisioned pairing preserved plums, a typical tea snack, with oolong tea, the famous produce of Taiwan. He did that by congealing a sad salted plum in a puck-shaped tea jelly. It was bad enough that I could hardly taste the tea, and the plum seemed tired and weak. But it was worse that the chef—although he was correct in not sweetening the tea jelly itself—decided to commit cardinal sin by dousing condensed milk and caramelized sugar syrup for the necessary sweetness. For purists, after all, oolong tea should be enjoyed for what it is, and never with cream or sugar.

I have always viewed Taipei’s native sons-cum-western trained chefs with suspicion, judging by the generally poor quality of Western restaurants in the city. After the “Wulai Classics” lunch, my feelings have not changed. But Wulai’s scenery and Spring Park’s tranquility more than made up for that. As I rode the MRT back into the city, I felt rejuvenated and refreshed, ready to resume my work.

To reach Wulai and the Spring Park Urai Resort, take the MRT to the end of the line at Xin▪dian (新店), and then take a taxi for the 15 minute trip upmountain. Ask the driver to drop you off at Spring Park (春秋烏來; chun▪qiu▪wu▪lai).

A Picnic On the Shinkansen

2005-04-22T11:20:00.000-07:00

On the last day of my stay in Kyoto, I woke up very early so that I could get some sightseeing done. From the Westin Miyako at the eastern edge of the city, I took a winding walk through several beautiful temples in the vicinity. In the cool spring air and the absence of tourist crowds, tranquility took on a spiritual meaning. Not only was it refreshing to escape from the hectic pace of modern Japan, but just the chance to be alone was also cleansing to my soul.

But zen-like moments like this could only last so long. By late morning the day had warmed and the crowds arrived. It was turning into another touristy day in Kyoto. So I left. Besides, I had a Shinkansen train to catch at noon to get to Tokyo.

Before heading back, I assembled together a few things to eat for lunch on the train. At Hisago Sushi, a popular oshizushi shop in town, I bought a combination box of horse mackerel (aji) and conger eel (anago) (¥1,300). At a fruit stand, I bought a Fuji apple (¥200). At a 7-Eleven, I bought a green tea sponge cake (¥80) along with a cute can of Asahi “Super Dry” beer (¥250). And back in my room, I swiped off a hand towel, a tea cup, and a drinking glass. Throwing them all into the bag, my lunch was complete—well, nearly complete. I checked out of the hotel and took a cab to the train station. Then, on the track platform just as the Tokyo-bound Nozomi pulled in, I dropped a ¥100 coin into the “hot drinks” machine, and out came a warm bottle of green tea. Now I was ready for my lunch on the Shinkansen.

Oshizushi is a popular style of sushi in western Japan. Compared to Tokyo’s famous nigiri sushi, oshizushi has more history and is actually the more traditional of the two forms. It is made by pressing rice and fish together in a wooden mold, and then cut into rectangular pieces. Whereas nigiri sushi is famous for containing raw fish, oshizushi uses mainly cooked and marinated fish, as exemplified by the horse mackerel and conger eel I bought—horse mackerel is lightly cured in a salt and vinegar brine, and conger eel is cooked in sweet soy sauce. Also, nigiri sushi is typically served with soy sauce and wasabi as condiments, whereas the ingredients in the oshizushi are already seasoned well enough so that you don’t need to add anything else. In fact, my order did not come with either soy sauce or wasabi.

It turned out that I had more than enough food; I could not finish the entire meal laid out in front of me. A man walking by the aisle saw my setup and joked that it looked as if I were having a picnic. And I smiled back because he was right.