Take his braised meats. Shanghainese cooking is known for these long-cooked meats in dense, gravylike sauces. Wang’s most famous dish in this hallowed genre is the unattractively translated “wrinkled skin pork knuckle,” which is actually a fresh, uncured ham steamed and fried and braised for hours in a profound pool of soy, spices, and rock sugar, until it is cut open and the hanks of meat fall away at a touch. Wuxi-style spareribs—Wuxi being the city that claims to have invented this dish—are braised in their own mahogany sauce, in this case accented with star anise and cinnamon. In one of Green Village’s top sellers, “chicken with chestnuts,” Wang’s gravy marries the sturdy flavor of chestnuts with caramelized garlic and ginger, plus a touch of oyster sauce. Succulent “braised fish tail” (actually the lower third of a carp, a cut rarely singled out for special treatment in Western cuisine) gets a spike from pounded ginger, green onion, and Shaoxing wine.
A dish listed in the casserole section as “clam with steamed egg” is one I wish I could have every morning. A savory layer of hot egg custard conceals a small treasure of clams in intensely flavored chicken broth at the bottom. And everyone loves the Zhejiang dish called “yellow croaker in liver moss”: Finger-size fish fillets are deep-fried in batter laced with water weeds that lend a mottled green color and a musky, maritime taste—yet the crisp coating is so eggshell-thin, the fish seems almost oil-free. A dunk in pepper salt sends it over the top. But that name! Did he mean to say river moss? “Oh, right,” says Wang. “River. Not liver.”
Awkward though these translations are, they are probably not responsible for keeping such artistic cuisine from a wider audience. So what is? This is a question imbued with poignant longing for Wang Haibo and Henry Chang; they speak often of the struggle to connect with the Western palate. Maybe, as Chang suggests, Westerners just don’t like to experiment. For his part, Wang thinks they have been misled by recent culinary history. “The problem,” he says, “is that Americans were catered to by the early chefs who developed the American style. So people think this is the food, this is the culture. The first few generations of immigrants didn’t have the courage to introduce the real food to the public.”
Yet things are changing, however slowly. More than two decades into the current immigration boom, authentic Chinese food can now be found in our largest cities—by those who seek it out. And in an enclave like the San Gabriel Valley—where food is art, standards are sky-high, and “Chinese taste” is king—a whole world of it has been born. It is the American dream at work, and it enriches us all.
Juon Yuan
140 West Valley Boulevard, No. 210
San Gabriel; 626-288-9955.
Green Village
140 West Valley Boulevard, No. 206-207
San Gabriel; 626-288-5918.
Lovers of authentic, ultraspicy Sichuan food should also try Chung King (206 South Garfield Avenue, Monterey Park; 626-280-7430), where standout dishes include “boiled fish slices in hot sauce” (or any of the dishes on the shui zhu section of the menu, headed “Boiled Dishes in Hot Sauce”), “quick-fried beef with green onion,” fu qi fei pian (translated as “beef and lung slices with special hot sauce,” though it contains no lungs), and “fried peanuts with small fish,” an addictive Sichuanese snack.
(note: The restaurants above all have English menus, but in none of them will you find much English spoken.)
Planning Your Own Chinese Banquet
Arranging your dream dinner party at a restaurant where very little English is spoken can seem daunting, but all it takes is a bit of effort. Special-occasion Chinese meals are set up in advance. If you don’t live too far away, your best option is to visit in person; this makes menu-oriented communication easier and also demonstrates your dedication to planning a superior meal. If a visit is impossible, then call and ask for a staffer who speaks some English. (Most establishments have at least one such person—be patient, you may have to call back to catch their shift.) Ask them to fax you a menu.
Make it clear that you want “Chinese taste,” not “American taste.” Then ask the restaurant to suggest its best, most popular dishes, including any that might not be listed on the menu. If there is a particular ingredient you don’t want (I, for example, have never met a sea cucumber I liked), this is the time to say so. It might take several calls to agree on all dishes, since they will check your queries with the chef. Finally, the total food price will be fixed (beverages are ordered at the table).
Most importantly, try to leave your preconceptions behind. Be open! As Henry Chang says, “To get a good meal, be willing to try something new.” —N.M.
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