Chinese

(This is a DAVE warning the following story is TRUE and not for the frail of heart or stomach.)

So I finally had authentic Chinese food...

This evening, my friend and co-worker Yong Hui (Phil) Wang took me out to dinner. We had long hoped to have an authentic Chinese meal together -- I because I've been curious, and he because he can't find any Western food he likes so much, and both of us because we're friends.

So after a few hours in the office today, we headed out to a place that Phil and a friend had found. According to Phil, this would be very authentic food. The name of the restaurant was "Joe's Shanghai" which is sort of funny, and one wouldn't pick it by name as one of the best Chinese restaurants in New York. But apparently it IS one of the best, and certainly, in the heart of Chinatown, I think I was the only patron of Western descent in the establishment this evening.

I should also describe Phil for those of you who do not know him and/or to whom I have not described him. Phil is a Ph.D. in computer software engineering, a visiting scholar at Columbia University, and an indispensable part of WiZeUp.com (our company). He started working for us part-time last March, and we would like him to stay with us when he's finished his research at Columbia U. His English is nothing short of atrocious, but improving constantly, and he and I communicate quite well. Most people have no earthly idea what he's saying. He's also one of the nicest, most likable people you'll ever meet in your life. He is going back to China to spend 4 weeks with his wife and 2-year-old son. He has been away from them nearly 12 months. Our dinner this evening was a celebration of our friendship, for the year past, and for all of the good times to come when Phil returns to the USA.

I have always wondered what it would be like to have a real Chinese dinner, rather than the Americanized Chinese which I enjoy, but I know is a put-on. Over the years I have read many accounts of fabulous and exotic meals served in Philadelphia's China town...beautiful dishes like Lotus soup (made from the flower).

I've also heard some not-so-pleasant stories from my friend Pat Barney, who spent 6 months in Shanghai learning Chinese to take more of a role in his father's business. If he were reading this letter, Pat would be able to top it by a mile. But he's not reading this, and so I know that I can tell you, my fellow Westerners, and anticipate total sympathy from both your palate and our soul. My sister, who is reading this, keeps strict kosher, and will certainly experience a mix of empathy and triumph -- empathy because long ago in a previous life before kosher food she has probably had a few icky things served to her by well meaning friends -- triumph because these days she not only knows exactly what is on her plate, but it's entire diet, life, and death experiences before it became her lunch.

The dining area at Joe's Shanghai was well lit and nicely appointed in green with dark wood paneling. There was a line at the door, trailing past a tank full of live carp at eye level. We were able to sit immediately, as the management was obviously less accustomed to seating a deuce than an entire family of 6, 8 or 10. Most of the tables were huge, round affairs, packed with Chinese from the elders to the children, all busily munching, slurping, picking and plucking and talking animatedly all the while. I had taken Phil to lunch several months ago, one Saturday when the weather was still what passes for pleasant in New York, at a seafood place at the Seaport in Manhattan near the Brooklyn Bridge. He has no idea what foods are named in English, and so gamely allowed me to order for the both of us. Unfortunately for me this evening, the menu was printed in both Chinese and English, and so I did not have the luxury of ignorance. I recall something about "Carp Bellies", and with something between a spasm and a reflex, I snapped the menu shut. And in the end, I was out for an authentic Chinese meal -- my spirit of adventure and sense of fair play demanded that I extend the courtesy to Phil -- I told him to order for the both of us (hoping that at least, if we were served Carp's Bellies, I would not recognize them as such). On the way to the restaurant, in fact, all week since he'd extended this invitation to me, Phil could not stop talking about the "buns" that Joe's Shanghai makes. He could only describe them to me as a "kind of bread with a center" by which I was able to imagine a sort of dumpling or wan ton. When we arrived, I knew we were having some of those, and Phil assured me that these were better even than those available in China. His mouth was watering, his eyes glowing as he looked around at literally every patron in the packed dining room enjoying bamboo-steamer after bamboo-steamer loaded with these delicacies. And they were great! Indeed, a sort of wan ton, though not cooked the same way, the "buns" were steamed dough filled with crab meat and a seafood broth so that they were sort of little bags of soup and a bite of firm filling. They were truly delicious. They burst in your mouth, each one it's own large bite, and each new bite renewed the fantastic taste. Thanks, Phil, for treating me to a wonderful Chinese dish that, although served in New York City, may be the finest example to be found in all the world. While we demolished the first batch of buns, a second arrived, as well as the second and third courses. Phil had ordered Beijing Duck (he is from Beijing) -- which he explained was not like Peking Duck (although Beijing was once known as Peking and Phil still calls his city by that traditional name) -- and also something else. I have no idea what it was. It looked like a huge pile of tape worms. The horror began with the second and third courses. I had imagined the duck before it arrived. Mistake number one. I had thought of a steaming hot plate of aromatic and succulent meat, reddish brown with sauce hugged by crispy-edged fat. It was cold. It was bare of any sauce or seasoning I could see. It was mostly bone and pale fat... It was raw. I asked Phil what the difference was between Peking Duck and Beijing Duck. He said that Beijing Duck is fresher tasting. To me, it tasted like a raw duck. I gnawed at one piece with a big hunk of bone in the middle, reasoning that it would look like I had taken a nice big piece, but that I wouldn't actually have to eat that much. I took another piece later -- Phil had ordered this because he loved it and truly hoped I would as well and I didn't want him to feel bad -- I had a hard time with piece number two. What made me feel worse was the knowledge that when I had taken Phil to the Seafood place, I know he did not enjoy his entree (a grilled tuna steak on a bed of fresh herb salad). I avoided the duck for the rest of the evening, claiming that the fat was bad for the human heart. The table was crammed with dishes, and the third course was lurking evilly by my elbow, a pile of tape worms which, had I not kept careful watch on it, might have attempted to burrow into my skin. I asked Phil what it was that had found its way onto our table (did the waiter bring it? I don't remember seeing him carrying it...perhaps it had come to visit us on its own?). He said it was fish. Friends, I have been catching, killing and eating fish for a few years now. I can't wait to get back at it in some climate which demands very few clothes and an unwavering patience for a slow pace of life. But I have never, never, ever seen a fish gone wrong like this one. I'm not sure what happened to it. It was frightening. Phil did not know the English name for the fish. He asked the waiter in Chinese. . . It was tuna! Ladies and gentlemen, this tuna deserved a spot in the museum of natural history as the most god-awful mutant tuna that ever swam the seas. If that was tuna, then I'm Madonna. I'm sticking with the tape worm theory. For the rest of the evening the tape worms splooged wetly in their bowl near my elbow, and I kept vigil on their reflection in my beer glass, ready to throw myself behind a fellow diner if the worms made a sudden lunge toward me. By now the fourth course had arrived. I was full from the buns, not to mention severely turned off by the prospect of more mystery meat deliveries. Luckily, course number four was a large bowl of won ton soup. It sat near Phil, definitely beyond polite reaching distance, and I could only sit and moon at it, wishing that I could serve myself some to appear to be busy eating, when in fact I was sitting there sort of freaked out watching Phil slurp up tape worms and chew raw bird. There was one more course to come, and I knew what it was -- Kung Po Frog. Yes, frog it was, friends and neighbors. And I had agreed up front that Phil should go ahead and order it (he was excited about it). I assured him that, contrary to his belief, the Chinese were not the only people who eat frog. The French and Cajuns also eat frog legs, and even in the far-off boonies of Pottstown, PA where my parents and some Amish people live, frog legs are available in the local fish market. I've eaten alligator and liked it, why should I hesitate to eat a frog? I made mistake number two, which incidentally is related to mistake number one -- I had imagined the frog legs before they arrived. I had expected something like a long-ish chicken wing, surrounded by vegetables. (Kung Po, I believe, means something about vegetables). I recognized the vegetables. They looked like they always do. Reliable, trusty vegetables. Gotta love 'em. Vegetables almost never surprise you. It's part of their charm. Sort of like Midwestern couples. The vegetables were covered by blobs of white, glistening ... somethings. I couldn't tell from a distance exactly what was perched on the poor, lost-looking snow peas and carrots. If I had to guess right then and there, I'd say that the waiter had just blown his nose on our food. Phil then described one of the key differences between Western and Chinese food. It is this: Westerners tend to prefer that their meat be served separate from the bone, or at least that the bones, if they are served, should be large enough to avoid and have some utility -- for example, as a handle. Chinese prefer all of their food in bite sized pieces. They do not want to hold up a chicken drum stick and bite off the flesh. And since they have no forks and knives, cutting meat at the table is pretty much impossible. My theory is that Chinese chefs are just lazy. Rather than separating the meat from the bone, they just hack the bone to pieces with the meat clinging to it. To a Westerner, this is a frustration because we love to sink our teeth into hunks of juicy, lean meat. It's soul satisfying, particularly for Americans, to absolutely cram our gobs with a 3 inch cube of medium-rare steak, packing both cheeks like carnivorous chipmunks. Just thinking about it I hear Aaron Copland, quintessential cowboy composer whose piece Hoe-Down was the perfect, rousing, patriotic counterpoint to the commercials "Beef--it's what's for dinner!" (In reality, Aaron was a nice Jewish boy who didn't know a cow from a bull and didn't know why anyone would care). Luckily for Chinese chefs, Chinese diners don't mind a mouth full of bones and gristle, nor the constant spitting-out of shards and chunks. Phil then described to me a wonderful southern Chinese delicacy called "the three calls" or perhaps "the three cries". He says he's never had it, and I believe him. Most of you have heard a made-for-TV description of this dish -- a version that could get past censors on our bland network television. I hope you've all eaten and don't plan to for the rest of the day -- I must tell you what I've learned (getting it off my chest will keep me from having nightmares)... You've heard about Chinese eating rats or mice? Phil says it only happens in the south (though he may have been referring to this particular dish "the three calls"). And in the south, it's not full grown rats or mice they eat. It's the newborn, hairless ones we called "pinkie mice" when I was younger and my friends and I bought them to feed our pet snakes. The three calls, or three cries, got its name from the noises the pinkie mice make. They are alive when you serve them. The first call is when you pick them up. Second, when you dunk them quickly in boiling water. Third, when you pop them in your mouth and bite down... Soooo...I'm like, looking for the frogs legs among the white slop and vegetables. I mean, I'm staring at that plate expecting the legs to sort of kick out from under this heap of stuff and wave at me. They didn't. Reflecting on this now, I am glad. Still, the fact that I couldn't identify a frog leg -- or anything that looked like meat of any kind -- was really bothering me. I was really playing the "gee I'm so full--you're going to have to roll me home--where do you put it all" routine hoping to lessen the shame I felt and would possibly inflict on my friend. Phil is a wonderful, considerate and generous host. It is part of his culture, and I truly hope I was able to appear to be something other than a somewhat nervous and disgusted guest at his table. This dish was meant to be the showpiece, the final round of a night filled with hard-to-come-by delicacies. He held the dish aloft grandly, and with obvious pride, spooned some of the sticky mulch onto my plate. I found the frogs legs. Remembering one of the major differences between Chinese and Western quinine, I was able to identify a shard of leg bone poking out from some white, phlegm-type substance. This was nothing like I had imagined. Ever eat a chicken wing? It's a few decent bites of pure meat, no doubt. I figured a frog's leg would be good for one, maybe two bites just like that. I've caught thousands of frogs, and their legs look pretty well muscled. WRONG. The Chinese either have anorexic frogs, or, they have some trick which makes all of the meat disappear, leaving bones and gristle...and some other stuff that must be unique to frogs because I've never seen it before. I wasn't sure how to approach this dish. How could I eat bones and gristle? I asked Phil where the meat went. He didn't understand. I asked him how he could identify the edible parts. He wasn't totally clear on what I meant. The adrenaline swirled through my blood instantly, fight-or-flight reaction brought on in equal parts beer and panic. I launched into a detailed explanation, who knows at what volume, in which I clearly remember asking at least twice if he ate the bones and everything. And Phil understood me perfectly. The tape worms sqwooched up and down in their bowl, laughing at me. He said in China it's easier because they bring you the whole frog and you just pick off the piece you want to eat with your chopsticks. Phil basically interpreted my message as, "how do I eat this?" and instructed me to watch him. He popped a blob of stuff in his mouth, and expertly, surgically, deposited a glistening knob of leg bone onto his chopsticks which conveyed the waste to his plate. Chewing with obvious relish, smiling, Phil said, "I don't care where is meat. I do not care to identify." Well at least now I had a technique. Phil had generously given me a monster gob of goo, somewhere in the depths of which I could pretty much count on finding a frog bone. I screwed down my nerve, slugged some beer, and picked up the mess with my sticks. I put it in my mouth. I sort of cow-chewed, scraping the glob between my incisors. Bingo! Found the bone. Damned funny shaped leg bone, though. . . sort of wide. I was thinking this must have been the King Kong of frogs to have a leg bone like this! And suddenly, about 5 sharp points poked holes in my tongue as if I'd skewered it with a fork. The good news, folks -- frogs legs really do taste like chicken. The bad news: that wasn't his leg -- what I spit onto my chopsticks was part of a frog spine with ribs attached. Now I'm thinking, "O. My. God." I could have puked. I don't know whether it was my mind suggesting things or simply my subconscious finally sorting out the various anatomical mysteries of the "food" on my plate, but suddenly I clearly saw what looked like viscera sticking to the undersides of the wider blobs. The thin blobs with what were clearly leg-bone shards poking out revealed mostly frog fat with eensy weensy little tiny bits of white meat nestled inside here and there -- like grubs in a rotten stump. I would pay a lot right now to have a video of my face while all of this was going on. Suddenly the tape worms seemed no more menacing and just as appealing as the dish before me. Phil must have read something in my expression. He immediately served me a huge bowl of mostly wan tons with some broth, and kept going himself on the frogs legs. I don't know what was in the won ton, but they were just fine. The broth was nice, and after a full Tsing Tao beer and about 10 cups of steaming hot tea, the skull sharp horror of the meal faded into a sort of overall body trauma. We paid and talked a while. Then we left, him heading for the subway to go uptown, and I looking for a Taxi, which I always do from the China Town/Little Italy area because the subway stop I need is out-of-commission there (though there are no signs to let you know it's totally whacked, you could wander and get lost or murdered under there, nobody would ever find out). I am home now, nursing a beer, trying to get the taste of raw duck out of my mouth and still feeling pain from the frog-rib wounds on my poor tongue. My guess is, if this is kick-ass Chinese fare, I am going to have to reconsider my plans to backpack around China some day. I told Phil before the meal started that I wasn't afraid of food. I hate to say it, but just learned that food scares me out of my wits. Thank you, Phil, for your friendship and generosity. You are a true friend, and no matter how my life may change, no matter where it takes me, I will always remember you fondly. I wish you a beautiful, loving reunion with your wife and son, and god speed your safe return both to those who care for you in China and to we who care for you in America.

But please, do not ask me to be your guest at dinner.