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

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.

Brandy Ho's, San Francisco

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.

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

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

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

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 …

Day Trip to Leshan -- Sichuan Province

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.

Shanghai-style Tangbao (湯包) -- Soup Dumplings

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

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