1/2 So, I grew up in the freaking coffee capital of the US (or is that Seattle? I get confused. Maybe Portland is the nation’s microbrew capital, though I swear on some horrible Food Network show I was trying not to pay attention to said that Denver had that honor) but all I drink is black drip coffee. Even though I choose to drink sucky coffee cart coffee, I can tell when coffee doesn’t suck.
I wouldn’t be opposed to drinking Brasil Coffee House’s product if one existed anywhere near me. And almost more importantly, their yuca cakes, croquettes and cheesey pan de queijo are way more exciting than muffins (but then, I’m muffin averse). By the way, that's not a muffin on the right–it's a springy, coconut-topped yuca cake that just happens to be in a muffin wrapper.
One of my vacation dining goals was to sample as many regional cuisines as I could, and preferably ones not available in NYC (though my Sichuan bent got the better of me and I ended up eating it more than once even though I can get it here). Southern Barbarian, a slightly atypical Shanghai restaurant serving Yunnan food, was the source of one of my more memorable meals. Though to be annoyingly nonpartisan, I didn’t really eat anything unmemorable or even unlikable, with the exception of a few standard issue hotel breakfasts, melon slices and a shao bing that tasted like baking soda.
Yunnan province borders Myanmar, Laos and Vietnam so you might expect more Southeast Asian ingredients that typical Chinese ones. What I found didn’t really adhere strictly to any of those countries.
Maybe I’ve been in New York too long because I expect even the blahest of restaurants to be busy. There were only three other tables occupied when we arrived at Southern Barbarian at 8:30pm Halloween night. However, we did seem to eat late by Chinese standards. We tried scaling back our more typical 9pm to 8pm (two out of four nights in Beijing were a bust—I was so tired that I fell asleep before 8pm and I’m still steamed that I missed two potential dinners) but I think 6pm is more standard.
One of the only unfortunate things about China was that I didn’t know anyone. Socializing wasn’t so critical, but sharing food would’ve been a boon. Two people can only eat so much and I can’t justify ordering lots and nibbling little even when pricing is extremely gentle. At most places we settled on two entrees and one appetizer. At Southern Barbarian we went a little overboard with broad beans with Yunnan ham, potato pancake, salt and pepper cheese, beef with chile and mint and grilled chicken, and somehow still managed to eat everything. I would've loved to try the dumplings and cross the bridge noodles (spelled/translated various ways) but that would've been ridiculous.
James was scared of Chinese goat cheese (I was scared of the dish with honeybees), but there was no way I was ignoring it. Fried cheese? Come on. The thin barely crispy squares were very mild, un-goaty, and dusted with tingly Sichuan pepper.
It was decided that chile powder coated beef on toothpicks would fit in at a Super Bowl party. We’ll try to replicate it come February. Strange as it sounds, a lot of this food, including their vast selection of barbecued meats, wouldn’t be out of place on a menu of bar snacks. Keeping with the pubby theme, they also have a very un-Chinese collection of imported craft beers in bottles. We had to ask for Brooklyn Lager because we’re hokey.
“I don’t think this is Chinese food,” James commented. I could see his point with the broad beans and Yunnan ham, which strongly resembled thick split pea soup on a plate. What he meant was that he thought the chef was taking liberties. I didn’t believe there was nothing nouveau going on. We were told by the owner (one of the most fluent English speakers we encountered in a restaurant) that everything was home-style, not the sort of things you’d find in a restaurant in Yunnan, and that sounded reasonable to me.
Maybe that’s why I liked everything so much; starchy and fried is my thing. If I had a few more days in China, I definitely would’ve tried another Yunnan restaurant for comparison.
Southern Barbarian * 2/F Area E, Ju’Roshine Life Arts Space, 56 Maoming Lu, Shanghai, China
I can’t ignore that every single blurb on new Soho Vietnamese eatery Bun, mentions that “former Duran Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo” is co-owner. Warren Cuccurullo isn’t a real Duran Duran member, ok? Never was. Whether Bun is worth visiting is beside the point, no decrepit Duranie should abide such sacrilege.
While I see the fun immediacy in texting in IMing, I still find it hard to believe that only a decade ago, people, low-level celebrities included, actually wrote handwritten letters and months might go between correspondence. After once referring to All-American Girl as unstalkable in print (there was no Googling this shit), I got a letter from Margaret Cho.
I was probably taken to task, but what I remember most about her missive was that she’d attended some Duran Duran related event, got drunk and went over to Warren Cuccurullo’s mom and started in on how he wasn’t a real Duran Duran member. I could only applaud this misguided effort to right the wrongs of music’s past.
Sure, Warren replaced Andy, the gross unlovable Duran Duran member, but if I heard Andy Taylor was opening a Thai restaurant in Tribeca, I’d hotfoot it over immediately. Even though I’m sure the curries would suck. At least Andy would wear a shirt.
Yes, strange that I would start my China restaurant recaps with Pizza Hut. I really intended to steer clear of western food, I swear, but curiosity eventually got the better of me. Pizza Hut and KFC (both Yum! Brands) definitely seemed to be the dominant US chains in China. You might think of McDonald’s or Starbucks as the global evils, but pan pizza and fried chicken are prevailing in that corner of the world.
KFC got the better of me while killing time in the Beijing airport, which is far from a fun way to spend two afternoons (Singapore’s Changi airport is completely engaging but I’ve never needed to hang around for lengths of time). Though I later saw ads for buckets, simple fried chicken didn’t seem to be the attraction. All the combo meals were focused on sandwiches and wraps, and crunchy breaded cutlets between buns appeared to be the snack of choice. As English was non-existent on signage or spoken by staff, James pointed at a random picture and that’s the combo we split.
The bonanza entailed the popular chicken sandwich, four drummettes/wings, a creepy mayonnaisey vegetable salad that I didn’t taste out of fear and lack of cutlery and what tasted like orange Tang. I don’t really eat at KFC in the US so I can’t accurately compare the two. I don’t think extra crispy is our default, though.
I intended to get two egg tarts for dessert and somehow ended up with four. As far as miscommunications went, this was a fairly minor and tasty mishap. The little custardy pies are served warm and were way better than a fast food apple pie (yes, I’m mixing up my chain desserts).
Malls, each with a unique name and different stores, can span multiple blocks connected by overpasses and underground walkways. The only inevitable commonality are the KFCs and Pizza Huts. I only meant to peek at the Pizza Hut menu posted outside a corner location (there was also a Papa John’s nearby, but I’ve never been to one and didn’t think I should start in Shanghai). But after seeing appetizers like escargots and catching a glimpse of the slightly upscale interior, I had to try one of their seafood pizzas, no way around it.
I haven’t eaten inside a Pizza Hut in years (though I did briefly work in a drive-thru only one in college) so maybe they’ve fancified here too. Chinese Pizza Huts are more of a full service restaurant with soups, pastas and light jazz tinkling in the background.
I wasn’t bold enough to start with escargots, the New Orleans wings gave me pause; it was the cumin lamb meatballs that won me over. I just wasn’t expecting the cold marina-style dipping sauce that came on the side.
Because I’m a grotesque American (despite attracting a 98% Asian clientele, we got nasty looks through the window by some young white folks. I really don’t get the big deal. No one ever takes issue with Japanese chains like Yoshinoya or Coco Curry House that were all over the place. I wouldn’t have a problem if someone from China wanted to try mediocre Chinese food in NYC) I ordered the most expensive pizza (around $8) from their Gourmet Line. This doozy contained smoked salmon, shrimp and squid and was drizzled with creamy wasabi sauce.
Lacking any Italian-ness whatsoever in my DNA, cheese paired with seafood doesn’t bother me in the least. And sure, the dairy and spiciness dominated but the mix of flavors was strangely compelling.
KFC * Beijing Capital International Airport, Beijing, China Pizza Hut * Metro City, 1111 Zhaojiabang Lu, Shanghai, China
Crowds, loogie hawking (as opposed to persistent hawking of artwork, shoe shines, watches and postcards) pushing and the inability to stand in orderly lines. (I loved–and by loved I mean was defeated yet still amused–the elderly couple at immigration in Newark that ducked under the rope barriers and ran to the front of the snaking line.) Cutting has no meaning in China, which only makes the grade school concept of “Chinese cuts” ring truer.
Finding shoes or clothing in my size was futile. Shoes top out at 39 and the XLs at Uniqlo (yes, we tracked down a Uniqlo as well as H&M) looked very un-large.
The number of babies, pregnant women, SUVs and pet dogs was considerably lower than in my neck of the woods. Pets seem to be a semi-new thing and the few dogs I saw were small Pomeranian types, many in clothes. I liked the elderly woman who kept her tiny mutt in line like a donkey or circus animal while waving a small tree branch.
That I would be faced with two Robin Williams vehicles on the flight back, License to Wed and Mork and Mindy reruns (I was tortured by R.V. while stuck on the runway for two hours last summer).
That melon (my least favorite food in the world) is considered a dessert. I didn’t realize what a sweet tooth I had until faced with nonstop fruit and red beans—thankfully Pocky and Dove bars from the 24-hour Alldays kept me sane.
Surprising Things About China:
Spotting Steve Buscemi at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Shanghai when I’ve never once seen him in Brooklyn.
A mania for Halloween, or at least decorating with pumpkins and that mask from Scream.
How painfully hard the beds are. I’d read about too firm mattresses on travel sites but didn’t quite understand the magnitude. I’m not a fussy sleeper, as I’ve mentioned before I spent three years on a disgusting left behind mattress in my first NYC apartment, but these Chinese mattresses nearly caused nerve damage. I got bruises from trying to lie on my side and had shooting leg pains the entire week and a half.
Their fixation with mopping and sweeping. Sure, cleanliness is next to godliness, but the Chinese are out of control. (I got charged $1.80 by a hotel for a towel that I supposedly permanently ruined. “You cleaned your shoes with it.” I finally figured out that it was a tiny patch of mascara they were referring to.) Sweepers with old-fashioned brooms were permanent fixtures on every street and overzealous moppers occupied every indoor surface and had no qualms about including your too-slow feet in the scrubbing process. I was stupid enough to bring along a pair of boots I’d never worn before and the smooth soles were completely powerless over the abnormally clean and slick surfaces indoors and out. I’m more used to grit and grime and kept skidding out.
How good I got with the squat toilets. Despite the mattress-induced leg pains, my thigh muscles proved up to the task. But what I still don’t understand is what you do about #2. Luckily, I never had to contend with that problem, but squat toilets don’t flush and you have to throw your self-provided toilet paper into a basket.
Gray smog. I’m not sure if it was fog or smog, but Beijing was so bleak and dreary you literally couldn’t see buildings across the street. The sun finally came out on our last day and was accompanied by bitter near-freezing temperatures. Thankfully, it was time to head to Shanghai because I hadn’t brought a coat with me and was frightened by what my outerwear prospects might be like in China.
How many brands and stores I’d never heard of. Some I’ve seen in Asia before like G2000 and Goldlion, but most were completely unknown to me. I don’t mean weird knock offs or bastardizations like Vony using a Sony logo but “real” stores in malls like Septwolves and Valued Squirrel.
As mullets are to Barcelona, bad frizzy ‘80s perms are to Beijing. I was too polite to take photos, though now I regret that error. I’m not sure if this unfortunate style seen on males and females was intentional or not. I didn’t see anyone on TV or in ads looking like that. Hip, irony seems severely lacking in China so I don’t think it was tongue in cheek. I’m not even sure what their sense of humor is, or if they have one. I had this sort of hair in grade school, mine was a result of home perms that rapidly faded into saggy kinks rather than full curls.
That I'm not sick of Chinese food. Usually, when I get back from an Asian vacation all I want is American or Mexican food for the first few days, but I could totally eat noodle soup or dumplings no problem. What I really want right now is something Sichuan, swimming in chile oil, but that kind of thwarts my plan to drop ten pounds by the end of the year (I originally had 25 in mind by end of 2007 but that's just not happening) and then I read, "Overindulging in Sichuan Cuisine May Harm Your Health" on the plane back to NYC. Bah.
So, onto my not-terribly-poignant food-centric photos with as little of myself in them as possible. I have to force myself to take pictures because it doesn’t feel natural, though I’ve definitely improved since my first visit to S.E. Asia in 2003 when I only managed eight pictures in two weeks. I suspect that my posts will be consumed with food in China for a while, so if you hate that sort of thing I’m afraid you’ll be tormented for the next few weeks.
Ok, so that’s it for NYC. At least for the next eleven days, (I don’t see any drastic moves in my immediate future, though I’m not opposed to the idea. My sister who’s lived in the UK for the past twelve years, weirded me out today when she mentioned that she was thinking of moving not just back to Oregon, but someplace isolated and rural because Portland’s too “big.” WTF? I can’t stand being around people but I’m not ready for the middle of nowhere yet.) Beijing and Shanghai will be my focus for the next week and a half and I have no idea what to expect. I will say that I’m not scared of stinky tofu, duck blood, seahorses on skewers or even cat hot pot (not scared ≠ want to try) but I’m nervous about the Great Wall.
It’s everything I loathe: crowds, relentless hawkers, tourists (including myself, of course), heights, stairs. I can almost guarantee a panic attack. And someone was saying there was now a roller coaster or some shit at the Great Wall? You’ve got to be kidding me–add amusement park rides to my list of phobias, thanks.
I rarely blog on the road and I’m not sure what the internet situation will be, though I’m all about modernity not roughing it so I imagine internet access won’t be a problem. It’s the lack of time on condensed vacations that poses the most problems. We’ll see.
Momofuku Ssam is like Fatty Crab to me: a restaurant I’ve always been reluctant to visit even though I know I would love the food, so I wait a million years, then end up going for lunch which isn’t even their raison d’etre. This is probably more egregious at Momofuku since the day and night menus are well…like…you know.
It’s kind of annoying that up until 2004, James spent nearly a decade living a block from where Ssam Bar (and that damn mob scene Trader Joe’s) now exist. If I only had to meander from Third Avenue to Second, it wouldn’t have taken me over a year to stop by. But the neighborhood is ick. Why live on a makeshift NYC campus when you can move to Brooklyn and experience all the same obnoxious kids ten years later after they’ve bought condos and procreated?
But yes, the food: my pork belly buns were fairly amazing, and I absolutely dig the pickle mania that has swept foodie-dom even if I hate the word foodie. The buns and ssams were as I’d expected, but I hadn’t anticipated the sides.
I loved my fried cauliflower dressed (heavily) with olive oil, fish sauce, chiles and mint. I might try reproducing this for Thanksgiving. It’s one of those dishes where people who think they hate fish sauce wouldn’t necessarily realize that’s what they were eating unless someone told them. The kimchi’d apples and bacon mix I sampled were also a mishmash that worked.
Sure, I’d like to try the country ham, banh mi or wrangle enough people together for the pork butt, but there’s no telling when that will actually happen. It’s much more likely that I’ll eschew my typical wait and see approach and try upcoming Momofuku Ko first.
Anything super sounds good, right? But as I’ve understood supertasters, it’s really kind of the opposite. More taste buds means more taste perception, which means heightened sensitivity to strong flavors. Because of this supertasters tend to be picky as children (which would correspond with the genetically picky kids over environment theory) and don’t like bitter things or fatty flavors.
True, bitter is my least favorite flavor profile but I drink my coffee black, like dark chocolate and the brassica family and fatty meat rarely repels me. I didn’t always like what was on my plate as a child, but that wasn’t so much a case of being picky–I just wasn’t so crazy about the food I was served (sorry, mom). I don’t think loathing only two foods in the world—melon and malta—constitutes picky. Pickiness is infuriating. If anything I’m a subtaster, dull-budded, always wanting more.
That’s why I was curious about the supertaster test being offered through BlogSoop. Their theory is that food bloggers would tend to be supertasters and that’s why they’re into food. I didn’t suspect that was the case with me because I don’t fit the finicky, highly attuned profile; I just like to eat and type words that disappear into bloggy ether.
But if I’m to believe the results—you chew a piece of treated paper to see if you taste nothing, mild bitterness or extreme bitterness, and I had foul bile-ish bitterness in my mouth for an hour—I’m super, after all.
Maybe it’s a covert experiment about the power of suggestion. Like if people think supertasting is a good thing than they’ll want to taste the bitterness? If you peruse the internet, it seems like anyone who has taken various tests (including this whack BBC one) has turned out to be a supertaster.
Strangely, I don’t feel like I have much of anything to say about Bocca Lupo because it’s solid, reasonable restaurant that needs no comment from me. (If I were to say anything it would only be relevant to me. And that is that whenever I have the urge to go out to eat, I should wait an extra 30 minutes. You know, kind of like that taking one accessory off before leaving the house trick. Unless visiting a restaurant that’s outer outer borough, it’s guaranteed that I will end up waiting half an hour to be seated, and as soon as I sit down half the room clears out. Bocca Lupo 10pm on a Friday=crowded, Bocca Lupo 10:30pm on a Friday=lots of open tables.)
Bocca Lupo’s on Henry St., I live on Henry St. They serve non-marinara drenched Italian food and stay open until 2am on weekends, both good things. You can order little snacks or more substantial dishes–it’s crazy like that. They’ve been open for almost exactly one year and I have no idea why it took me this long to pay a visit.
Unfortunately, thanks to three glasses of random Sangiovese, and their lack of an online menu, I can’t even cobble together basic details of what I ordered.
Salumi Why do I only remember the mortadella?
Cheese Once again, I only remember one specific: the gorgonzola. The unknown soft cheese was my favorite and the candied pecans were a nice touch.
Bruschetta Sweet peas don’t seem very October but whatever. The green puree was topped with prosciutto. The brown mass on the other bread slices was sausage draped with mild chiles.
I don’t think that I’ve spoken much about my job since starting it back in February. It’s definitely not a case of “if you have nothing nice to say…” but more of a “don’t I already bore the blogosphere enough as it is?” situation.
A good deal of my time is spent monitoring subjects like e-commerce, travel and IT as they relate to internet marketing. Consequently, I have RSS feeds up the yin yang (I really don’t know what that phrase means but I’ve always wanted to use it). For no particular reason keep my personal feeds on Bloglines and my work ones on Google and del.icio.us. The two paths should never cross. But every now and then while sorting through dull but relevant and dull yet useless stuff, I stumble upon something of moderate non-professional interest like “American Food Top Choice for People When Dining Out.”
Shocking, Americans prefer American food. Um, what is that anyway? I’m not the only one asking. Hot dogs, hamburgers, chili, buffalo wings…Chatham cod, Berkshire pork, Walla Walla onions, Maytag blue cheese?
I don’t analyze, I just research, but I’m sure that plenty of conclusions could be drawn from this data. For instance, those wretched Gen Xers only prefer American food over Mexican by one percentage point (25% vs. 24%). I can’t help but think it has something to do with a slacker/stoner affinity for nachos and burritos. Taco Bell seems quintessentially Gen X to me (and I can’t wait to see how “tacostadas” play out in Mexico) .
I have no explanation why Italian is tops with Echo Boomers (I can’t decide if that’s grosser than Millennials) but I’d love to blame Olive Garden.
Most of my favorites are Other, and I’m sure I’m not alone.
1/2 So, I grew up in the freaking coffee capital of the US (or is that Seattle? I get confused. Maybe Portland is the nation’s microbrew capital, though I swear on some horrible Food Network show I was trying not to pay attention to said that Denver had that honor) but all I drink is black drip coffee. Even though I choose to drink sucky coffee cart coffee, I can tell when coffee doesn’t suck.
I wouldn’t be opposed to drinking Brasil Coffee House’s product if one existed anywhere near me. And almost more importantly, their yuca cakes, croquettes and cheesey pan de queijo are way more exciting than muffins (but then, I’m muffin averse). By the way, that's not a muffin on the right–it's a springy, coconut-topped yuca cake that just happens to be in a muffin wrapper. 
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I can’t ignore that every single blurb on new Soho Vietnamese eatery 
I don’t think that I’ve spoken much about my job since starting it back in February. It’s definitely not a case of “if you have nothing nice to say…” but more of a “don’t I already bore the blogosphere enough as it is?” situation. 
