Posts in Blog
A Globetrotter's Guide to Unusual Chinese Restaurants

The frequent travelers among us know that Chinese restaurants are everywhere. Once upon a time you could have visited Dublin or Dubai without seeing an Empress Garden Panda Palace or some variation, but those days are long gone. Like when writer Daisann McLane stumbled upon the Hong Kong Café in icebergian Greenland. A recent commenter on this blog put it best: "It's weird, but I always try to find the 'Chinatown' when I'm international too. I feel comfortable and at home there."

I'm a huge fan of using Flickr for research, and months ago became addicted to this fascinating Flickr pool of Chinese restaurants around the world. Here are 7 favorites:

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Chow Mein, an American Classic

Ed. - Say you're at your favorite Chinese take-out, feasting on moo goo gai pan and crab rangoon. "I bet they don't really eat this stuff in China," you think, recalling the Discovery Channel special on TV last month. You would be correct. But how did dishes like chow mein and the once ubiquitous chop suey, unrecognizable to anyone in China, become such so well-loved  in the US? Author Andrew Coe explores this and other mysteries of the Chinese-American culinary repertoire in his new book Chop Suey: A Cultural History of Chinese Food in the United States, which came out this week. In today's guest post, he gives a glimpse into the past and present life of chow mein.

Somewhere in America right now, noodles are frying.  The chef is preparing chow mein, which simply means “fried noodles" in Chinese.  But not all fried noodles are alike.  In China, the varieties of chow mein are as numerous as the regional cuisines.  Some are lightly heated in the wok, while others, particularly in Guangdong province and Hong Kong, are fried in bunches in oil until they’re browned and crispy on the outer edges but still soft in the middle.  It was this southern style of chow mein that was carried to the United States by the Chinese immigrants.

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Chinese in Budapest

Last summer when Jacob went to Budapest for a conference, he took an few hours to stroll around the city's "Chinatown." Except there wasn't much of one, at least not the kind with red-and-gold gates and tons of indistinguishable souvenir vendors - kitschy but telltale signs that a city at least tries to embrace its multicultural identity.

With Hungary, the situation is a little more complicated. Through numerous conversations with Hungarians, many of them ultra-liberal on a range of political issues, there was an underlying resentment of recent Chinese immigrants. The country's Chinese population mostly consists of Fujianese who arrived starting in the 1980s, a good portion who may have entered illegally, and who have not really integrated into Hungarian society yet. It seems like an instance of vicious-cycle tension: newcomers keeping to themselves because of societal disdain, society feeling disdain because newcomers keep to themselves. Despite this, Chinese restaurants were doing okay business, though not nearly the lunch volume as their US counterparts.

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Roadside Duck Roasting

Over the weekend, while biking to Shanghai's Silk Market, Jacob and I got lost in a maze of side streets. This was a side of Shanghai visitors seldom see. We rode past a few "free-range" chickens (with feet leashed to a pole, to prevent straying) pecking on some dirty lettuce. On the other side of the road was a scene that would never pass American health inspection, but which made my heart skip a beat.

Open air duck roasting! Now, I think Peking duck is a neat art form, but the elaborateness of the preparation, ordering, and eating gets tiring after the 20th time. Some days you just want a crispy, juicy duck without the fuss. For example, one you can pick up while whizzing by on a bike.

So what does the inside of the metal inferno look like?

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When Chinese Food was Glamorous in America

I came across this Edward Hopper painting today and, for a few minutes, tried to connect the image with the name. The painting is evocative of everything I associate with the 1920s: men in suits, chic flappers, and dim stylish interiors. Yet if you look closely, there is a terracotta teapot on the table. And try to decipher the restaurant placard outside the window. The restaurant and painting are both called "Chop Suey".

Ask Americans what comes to mind when they think of Chinese restaurants. The adjectives you'll most likely get are along the lines of cheap, quick, and dingy with fluorescent lighting. Chinese restaurants are now the culinary equivalent of love motels.

I'm not talking about banquet halls in Chinatowns that cater to the Chinese, which also tend to be lackluster. I'm talking about restaurants for the other 99.5% of America. Whether they know it or not, these greasy take-outs, Panda Expresses, and P.F. Changs serve as cultural ambassadors for Chinese food and culture. And what they represent is cheap food for the masses, not culinary sophistication.

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Umeshu - Japanese Plum Wine

The weather gods have been cruel to me. As some of you may know, I spent the last two weeks in New York and Boston; expecting normal late spring temperatures, I packed summer clothes and sandals, only to freeze the entire time. On the last day, as I rode the train to JFK for my flight out, the mercury shot up to 70s. Such is my luck as a traveler.

Of course, I returned to China, where the May forecast anywhere along the coast is best described as "sauna-like." As though on cue, my hair became as frizzy as tumbleweed. I blasted the fan and ransacked the fridge for anything cold and sugary.

No ice cream surfaced, but I did find a bottle of umeshu, Japanese plum wine, bought with brilliant foresight a few months ago. Now, I know the Japanese fruit ume is technically not the same as a Western plum, but "plum" is the closest possible English equivalent, and is the norm on most English menus I've seen. (A close second is "apricot".) Umeshu, made by fermenting the little green ume in shochu and adding a bit of rock sugar, has enough to sweetness to cut through the mild sour edge. I love that certain brands like Choya offer single or double serving pop-top bottles, with green plums floating inside.

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Dried Fugu and Durian Pudding

I had always been morbidly curious about fugu, the Japanese blowfish delicacy that is potentially lethal if incorrectly prepared. The scene in my head plays out like this: a renowned Tokyo insider brings me to a renowned secret hideaway for fugu prepared by a renowned chef. I am excited; I will blog about it, post soft-lit photos on Flickr. But the chef has an off night (fight with the wife, perhaps.) Back in my quaint Lonely Planet-recommended ryokan, three hours after the mindblowing meal, tetrodotoxin paralyzes me and I fall over. Death by gourmandism is a noble death, but still a death.

Still, there are plenty of more common ways to pass on. (Struck by Hong Kong's warp speed double deckers, for example.) And the brightly lit, white tableclothed dining room of Lei Garden, being surrounded by Cantonese chitchatting relatives, seemed to be an unlikely set-up for the last minutes of my life. So when passed the plate of dried fugu with what looked like a honey sheen, I thought nothing of plopping a few strips into my mouth.

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Shanghai Street Food - Friday Muslim Market

Travelers to Shanghai sometimes expect to find a vibrant street food scene that's on par with that of Bangkok, Singapore, Chengdu, and other tropical or subtropical Asian cities. But because of a northern-ish climate (despite the Beijing tendency to think of Shanghai as "the south") and a culture that prefers indoor eating, good street food is hard to find. Zhongshan Lu has a few lamb skewer vendors, but is mainly a tourist trap for shopping and glitzy lights. Yuyuan Bazaar, home of the over-hyped Nanxiang soup dumplings, is just a tourist trap, period.

One place is Shanghai that locals actually frequent is the Muslim market in northern Jing'an, held only on Fridays after prayer service at the Huxi mosque. Starting around 11am, vendors set up their stands of cooked lamb, nan, dried nuts and fruit, and Arabic DVDs. Not to disparage Han ethnic culture, but sometimes it's nice to plant myself in a spot where the locals don't look or speak like the 1.3 billion majority.

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Chinese Herbal Jelly

At first glance, anyone who didn't grow up in an Asian culture might scrunch up her nose at herbal jelly. It's black, it's shiny, and it jiggles. But really, herbal jelly, or grass jelly, is like JELL-O, only naturally colored. Whole Foods is losing a big opportunity to market this as the next "it" health food.

Maybe it's the fact that it takes the shape of the tin can it comes from, that may turn people off. If, as a culture, Americans have moved past canned cranberry sauce, we might not be too thrilled with something similarly ridged but not candy-colored. Although grass jelly is made from an herb in the mint family, the taste is pretty neutral. Which is why Asians love it in desserts. In Hong Kong cafés and dessert shops serve grass jelly with mangoes, coconut, and other tropical produce. At bubble tea shops like Saint Alp's you can opt for little grass jelly bits instead of tapioca pearls.

In Hong Kong and southern China, you can find also tortoise jelly in tea shops with big gold or silver pots. Called gwei ling go in Cantonese, the genuine stuff is made from powdered tortoise shell and can get be as expensive as 300 HK dollars (about $38) for a rice bowl's worth. Don't worry, PETA members: imitation tortoise jelly is much more common and usually costs $1 or less. It's made from different herb than grass jelly, but tastes pretty much the same.

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How to Make Chili Flower Garnishes

I don't have the dexterity of a Thai watermelon carver, but every once in a while I like to add a decorative touch to everyday foods. Remember the chili flowers from my Sichuan-style chicken noodle soup? A couple of readers wrote in to ask how to make them, so here is my belated post. All you need to start are fresh chilis and a pair of clean, pointy kitchen shears. And maybe some gloves if you plan on touching your eyes within the next few hours.

1. Snip off the tip of the chili. Snip the chili in half length-wise, almost to the stem. With the shears, carefully scrape out as many seeds as possible.

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Mulberries!

And a few days ago, strolling through a market in Zhongshan, I saw pints of fresh seasonal red bayberries, which I almost bought. Then I saw what was next to them. Lo, what are these? They looked like blackberries, but oblong. "First of the season!" exclaimed another customer to her husband. I typed the Chinese characters from the sign into my translator.

Growing up, I always associated mulberries with posies, pickled peppers, and curds of whey; as in, they were just the stuff of nursery rhymes. Growing up in suburbia, I never saw any mulberries in supermarkets, and assumed they were just the figment of some clever 14th-century storyteller's imagination. How wrong I was about everything!

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Huangshan Food and Mountain Biking

I didn't visit Huangshan, China's famous Yellow Mountain range, for the food. Jacob wanted to ride in the annual mountain bike festival and I needed to see nature again. (Fellow expats know that Chinese cities can be energy-drainers.) But food, or hints of it, weren't hard to find.

I tried hard to find a narrative thread for this post, but decided that the photos themselves do a much better job of showing the area.

Take, for example, this sea of yellow. Isn't this a pretty backdrop for thigh-burning, adrenaline-fueled exercise? We came at the optimal time to find that Yellow Mountain was, in fact, surrounded by lots and lots of yellow. What are these plants and why are they everywhere, from the sides of mountains to people's from yards? Rapeseed. I would not be surprised if China's entire supply of rapeseed oil came from the Huangshan area.

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