When your significant other decides to extend your birthday by suggesting Sunday brunch at the Westin, it's hard to refuse.
Granted, I had a long-time hatred and distrust of buffets. In fact, I revulsed at the thought of them. Buffets reminded me of soul-sucking Vegas vacations and childhood meals out in suburban Massachusetts. My well-meaning but frugal parents even held my college graduation party at a Chinese-style buffet; insisting that the all-you-can-eat platters of strange-flavor beef and California rolls were a "good deal". I would have sooner organized a reception at a Chinatown dai pai dong.
But I digress.
Beijing's Westin Sunday brunch shattered my belief that buffets were all about quantity over quality. I even went easy at first on the limitless Champagne, so my judgement wouldn't be clouded. It was an exercise in restraint.
The strongest indicator of substance over fluff was the seafood. I piled my plate with lobster, crab legs, jumbo prawns, clams, and the freshest mussels I had tasted in ages. And I doubt I could have found a better seafood bouillabaisse this side of the Caucasus. (For the record, Jacob and I had a very light dinner the night before, and didn't eat any more food for the rest of the day.)
(Thank you, Chuan Ban)
Maybe it's not just me. Maybe other people also go through a cursed period of dining out, when every restaurant meal makes you want to crawl back to the safety of your own kitchen.
It started with a string of three Vietnamese restaurants. I had been avoiding Vietnamese here for lack-of-authenticity's sake, but recently got an immense craving for pho. Two weeks ago Jacob and I were in Houhai and, for lack of better choices, ate at Nuage, a trendy joint that seemed to care ten times more about décor than food. I won't go into a whole review. But I will say the spring rolls skins were lockjaw-inducing in their toughness. And the cocktails were possibly the worst I have had in China, which is saying a lot.
The next day I met up with Sandra from Savour Asia for lunch at Le Little Saigon, a new Vietnamese/French restaurant just north of the Drum and Bell Towers. The Vietnamese coffee was what I had been craving for months. But thick well-done flank steak has no place in my ideal bowl of pho. However, I'm such a sucker for good coffee and copies of Le Monde for perusing (in China!) that I just might return.
This was the case a few nights ago. Our friends S and K had been in Beijing for over a month, and it was their last night in the city. During their time here, they have visited just about every single vegetarian restaurant in the city. (If you have ever wondered what it is like for a vegan to travel in the Meatlover's Republic of China, visit S's blog.) When they suggested going out to Sichuan for one last meal together, I naturally expected a vegetarian Sichuan restaurant.
The restaurant (Yuxiang Renjia) turned out to be a regular omnivore's joint, and one that Jacob and I had already eaten at twice. On both previous occasions, the food was pretty good, but not impressive. We had eaten 口水鸡 koushui ji (mouth-watering chicken), mapo doufu, sizzling beef with peppers, and a lot of other unmemorable meaty dishes (obviously, since I can't list them.)
What was different this time was that we ordered all vegetarian dishes. That is, if you leave out the possibility that anything could have been cooked in a meat broth, which S and K have decided long ago to stop worrying about, to keep their sanity intact.) Who knew that a restaurant that turns out mediocre meat dishes, a staple of Sichuan cooking, could also produce much better vegetarian food?
This past weekend Jacob and I look a train from Shanghai to Hangzhou for a short trip. His main objective was to attend a tech conference, mine was to hang out on West Lake and to chow down on local specialties like beggar's chicken and prawns in Dragon's Well tea.
After the conference（held at a hotel) we asked a university professor for restaurant recommendations. He suggested a place called Grandmother's Kitchen, a popular local chain, but gave confusing directions.
"Where can I find Grandmother's Kitchen?" we asked one of the hotel employees. He shouted the question to a colleague using his Walkie-Talkie.
"My house," the colleague yelled back. Apparently Hangzhou-ese hotel staff have a sense of humor. About 15 minutes later we got to the restaurant, which, with its bright lighting and IKEA-esque furnishings, actually does feel like someone's house.
We got Dragon Well prawns. Pork and sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves. Edamame and roasted peanuts for cold dishes. Dry-fried green beans. Some other dishes that I don't remember. And my favorite of the night, red braised pork belly with smoked fish. I almost never use the term "unctuous", but it accurately describes the delicious sinfulness of the pork. This was even silkier than dongpo rou, Hangzhou's famous fatty pork dish. Granted, the accompanying fish was too salty, but the sweet sauce of pork drippings was excellent over rice.
For this month's That's Beijing, a local English-language magazine, I wrote an article on exploring Beijing's spots that serve absinthe. (I know, it was quite the tough gig.) Absinthe has been in the news back in the States ever since last year, when it was un-banned and subsequently started popping up on many bars' lists. So I decided to explore Beijing's options and found a few places that served not only shots but also tasty cocktails. (It's still not online yet, so perhaps I wil have to make a PDF to link to.)
More self-promotion (after all, this is what food blogs are for): In the feature, the 2007 Restaurant Awards for Beijing, I was on the "panel of experts" and gave my picks for restaurants in cagetories including Best Sichuan, Best Indian, and Best for a Romantic Dinner. Though I do have to point out the wording mistake (not mine) in my profile at the end. In NYC I worked as a pastry cook for several months, and did not go through the years of work it takes to become a pastry chef. To those outside the restaurant world this is a minor word issue, but to those who work in the industry, it's a huge distinction.
Minor grievance aside, this issue is a handy guide for anyone looking for restaurant recommendations in Beijing.
My original plan for Hong Kong was fitting in as much amazing Cantonese, Japanese, and Southeast Asian food as possible in a 3-day period. I solicited recommendations on Chowhound and did research on Openrice. I had dreams about sitting in a cha chaan teng with Hong Kong milk tea, French toast with condensed milk, and the odd-sounding but comforting macaroni with Spam. Then I got sick.*
I did get my milk tea, some congee, and a nice Cantonese dinner with relatives. But I was in no mood to hunt down new restaurants on streets and alleys I had never been to. Sneezing, wheezing, headaches, and a sore throat can dampen the spirits of any seasoned foodie. The best meal I had in Hong Kong was on the day I arrived, before the bad stuff started.
Jake and I got into Kowloon's train station at 1:30pm. By 3pm, after dropping off luggage, we were sitting in plastic chairs at Victory Kitchen in Northpoint. We were with my uncle, a HK foodie, who had never been to the restaurant but has always seen lines of people outside the door. That's a good enough sign for me.
Pu'er (sometimes spelled Pu-erh) is a complex tea with a huge following. It is the caipirinha of teas...drunken for centuries in its native land, and just now become ultra-popular to the outside world. The NYTimes recently had a good story on how farmers in Yunnan province are benefitting from the the rest of China and other countries discovering their native tea.
Pu'er originated in Yunnan but is also grown in neighboring Burma, Vietnam, and Laos. You may know it as the tea that's compressed into disks, bricks, or little dumpling-shaped cakes. Sheng Pu'er, also called green or raw Pu'er, is the kind most sought after by tea connosieurs. Like a good Bordeaux, it is aged for years, sometimes decades, and has a rich earthy taste that is particular to the land it grew on. Shou Pu'er is darker, oxidized after harvest to resemble the aging process Sheng Pu'er naturally undergoes. It can be drunken immediately and is much less expensive, but has a less complex flavor.
I just got back from a long weekend in Shanghai, where I fit in as much good eating as I could in 4 days. One place that had been on my must-visit list for a looooong time was Jia Jia Tang Bao, reportedly one of the best places for xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) in Shanghai. And since Shanghai claims xiaolongbao as a native food (others would argue that it orginated from surrounded towns), some afficionados think Jia Jia Tang Bao has some of the best in the world.
The ideal xiaolongbao, for the uninitiated, should have very thin, almost translucent skin, and equal parts soup and filling inside. I dream about these dumplings, and have tried so many poor versions that I want to cry every time. Often the skin is too think, sometimes there's not enough soup. When you are eating a perfect xiaolongbao, you should be worried about your clothes getting soup stains from a squirty dumpling.
Beijing is not known for bars that serve up well-mixed cocktails. In this city, nightlife itself is a fledgling concept, and most people's drink of choice is a bottle of cheap local beer. And don't get me started on rowdy, sketchy bars like the ones that got raided last Friday, whose atmosphere and alcohol quality remind me of a college frat party. Thank goodness for places like Q Bar, a classy little nook in south Sanlitun where bartenders shake and stir with expertise.
First off, the view of the city skyline from the 6th floor is great, as is the huge roof deck. And the cocktails - a range of martinis, revived classics, and special mixes like the rum-and-lychee-based G & E - ooze sophistication.
Then there's the food. Q Bar just started offering food, nicely plated and well-portioned for sharing. The grilled flatbread comes with a hummus dip and a wasabi cream cheese dip. The hummus dip was light, almost airy, and had something other than chickpeas that I couldn't quite put my finger on. As for the wasabi cream cheese, I can't say I've had that combo before, but there was just enough kick without being overwhelming.
The avocado lime dip for the chicken kebabs, also pretty light, was even better. After the chicken was eaten, I couldn't help finishing off the dip with flatbread.
The story of Jiumen Xiaochi (九门小吃）begins like many other stories of snack sellers in modern Beijing. Menkuang Hutong was a street where families sold traditional snacks using recipes and and skills that got passed down for generations. The hutong demolished some years back, to make room for new developments.
This story, though, has a happy ending. Eleven vendors got relocated to the new Jiumen Xiaochi, a collection of stalls now housed in a traditional courtyard. Some of these snacks, like bingtang hulu, can be found all over Beijing. Others, like flour tea, are a bit more unusual.
The restaurant is at the end of an meandering hutong off a larger road, not any place you would stumble upon. Jake and I made a lunch date and followed a map, walking 10 minutes or so from Jishuitan subway station. We bought a card from the reception desk (located in the dining area, not the entrance way), and ordered away.
Suanlamian, or sour and spicy noodles, was on display in its naked form. Instead of being doused with chilli sauce, the yellow and brown wheat noodles came with some peppers and cilantro on top, and a dish of chilli sauce on the side so you can adjust according to your spiciness threshold.
