It is nearly nine, and the entire staff gather around a large table at the back of the room to eat. They laugh and chatter as they eat—a cheerful, familial team. I am, for a time, the only customer, and I require no attention, being fully absorbed in my food.
Spicy & Tasty is a well-known Sichuanese restaurant, and I have ordered two distinctly Sichuanese dishes.
The first dish is Chengdu-style Cold Jelly. This consists of a kind of translucent, jelly-like sliced noodles, drenched in spicy sauce. Like glass noodles, these are made from bean or potato starch; but these are thick, cut from sheets. The sauce seems to contain some kind of fermented bean paste, as well as chili peppers and spring onions. It is complex and delicious.
The second dish is sliced lamb in fresh hot pepper. The sliced lamb floats in a bowl of red sauce, along with sliced Chinese cabbage. The hot chilies in this sauce are powerful, and at first dominate the flavor of the dish. But the sauce also has a fresh, almost minty flavor that numbs the tongue slightly. This is Sichuan peppercorn. Sichuan peppercorn is one of the oldest seasonings used in Sichuan, far predating the arrival of chili peppers in China, and remains one of the most distinctive features of authentic Sichuan cooking. I believe it is usually paired with chilies in contemporary Sichuanese food, constituting one of the pair of attributes usually associated with Sichuanese food—ma and la, or numbing and hot.
The sliced lamb is addicting. The combination of ma and la tickles and delights the tongue, and the perfectly cooked meat is completely satisfying. Though the bowl is large, I feel as though I could eat another. Spicy & Tasty has a long menu, and the restaurant doubtless warrants repeat visits. I have my eye on in particular on smoked tea duck (another Sichuanese dish) and frog in fresh hot pepper.
There are some interesting replicas of ancient Chinese artworks (such as a jade axe) in glass cases in the walls, but this does little to temper the businesslike feel of the dining area. The tables have faux marble tops and the room is coldly lit by overhead lights. Despite the excellent food, this may be a problem for Spicy & Tasty, as a beautiful outdoor mall has opened across the street, hosting two Sichuanese restaurants that both feature thoughtful and alluring interior design, and that have both serve food that has received highly positive reviews.
Spicy & Tasty
39-07 Prince Street, 1H
Flushing, NY 11354
Sun – Thu, 11:00am – 11:30pm
Fri – Sat, 11:00am – 11:30pm
The Ratha Yatra had begun a few hours earlier. Hundreds of people gathered in the street outside the temple and watched as a truck pulled the carriage away from the temple, two musicians sitting in the truck bed and playing ceremonial music, and two priests standing on the carriage continually making offerings of food to Ganesha.
I do not know what happened to these offerings, but celebrants brought food to the people following the carriage throughout the Ratha Yatra. They ran out from shops and vans and handed us samosas and sweets. One of the samosas I had was especially good—the crust was crisp, light, and oily, and the potato filling had a robust, warmly spicy flavor. The sweets were light and quite tasty.
I had been told by a Nepali friend that “Indians are really crazy” for this holiday, and it was indeed remarkable how joyful the crowd was. A drummer marched thirty or forty feet ahead of the carriage, and there were usually several people dancing around him—the men moving at each other with sudden changes of direction, almost mimicking confrontation, and the women throwing their hands in the air and twirling.
It was a very long and winding procession, approaching the heart of Flushing’s Chinatown at one point, and drawing the mostly East Asian shop owners out to watch. The samosas were not adequate to fend off hunger, and when we returned to the temple, I lost no time in claiming a free lunch.
Lunch consisted of rice with dal and yogurt rice. The dal was hot and had a certain severity—there was no hint of sweetness to it. But it was excellent. The yogurt rice was a nice cleanser after this.
Two men with upper bodies bare, except for bright fabrics tossed over their shoulders, sat cross-legged in front of a statue. A skylight bathed the men and the statue in sun. Between them lay a ceremonial dish of food, and in front of them and the statue fruits—bananas, pineapples, apples, and more—were spread on a blue tarp. On one side of the tarp, two musicians sat, one with a wind instrument and the other with drums.*
The puja took place in a long hall with thick columnar enclosures housing important deities (including the temple’s main deity, Ganesha). Along the sides of the room, statues made of stone, gold, and fabrics stood on pedestals behind signs saying, “Please do not touch the deity.”
The Temple Canteen lies in the basement of the Temple on the other side of the block. It is a cheerless space: the ceiling has cheap foam paneling with fluorescent lights and the floors are covered in linoleum. But a large, colorful Ganesha brightens the room from the back, and when I visited, the women taking orders at the counter were cheerful and warm.
The dosa was freshly made—soft, with the slightly pungent flavor of gram. Turmeric and other seasonings gave the potato filling a nice aroma and taste. The bowl of sambar was excellent: rich, savory dal with onions, curry, and blackened mustard seeds. The bowl of chutney on the side was what captivated me though. Combining cucumbers and chilies, along with creamy elements—including, perhaps, coconut milk—the chutney was hot and cold at the same time, a delightful clash. The masala tea was also wonderful: unsweetened, it combined the flavor of black tea with savory spices like cloves.
A man stands over a tray of roasted pigs’ feet shouting out their price. Another man delegates his announcements to a recording, a woman’s voice pleasantly reciting a message in Mandarin from a small loudspeaker sitting on the table before him, next to a collection of cell phones. A rotund woman with pigtails and a sunhat weaves through the crowds waving a Bible in front of her, announcing something in Mandarin. This is Flushing’s Main Street on a Sunday afternoon.
One of the most well known of these is a little difficult to find. It is part of the Golden Shopping Mall, but if you go into the main entrance of the Golden Shopping Mall, you will only find shops selling shoes and porcelain along with a grocery store and a dumpling stand. The food court is in the basement, and can only be accessed by inconspicuous entrances at the side of the building.
In the basement, you will find tightly interlocking restaurants—some with enclosed dining areas, but most with tables and benches spilling out into the narrow walkway. There are many regional cuisines represented here, from Sichuan to Shanghai. I chose to start with Beijing style dumplings and Xi’an style street food.
Tian Jin Dumpling House has a kitchen on one side of the walkway where dough and other ingredients are prepared and another kitchen on the other side where dumplings and other foods are boiled to completion. This latter kitchen is surrounded by a bar with stools, and it is here that you place your order. A glass window at the front tantalizes diners with a view of boiled ducks’ heads, sausages, fungus, and other ingredients that can be added to your food.
I ordered lamb dumplings. This took a little time—apparently the lamb meat is ground and seasoned and enveloped in dough in the kitchen on the other side, and then these raw dumplings are carried over to be boiled.
The skins of these jiaozi have a different textural quality from momos at Tibetan restaurants and from the baozi served at You Garden Dumpling House. I think it may be the slippery quality that Lin Hsiang Ju, the biochemist daughter of Lin Yutang, says can be given to noodles by rinsing and boiling them (she says this process causes a slippery skin of proteins to form around the noodles).
For dessert I ordered pumpkin stuffed with sesame. These came piping hot. They are globes of seemingly intact pumpkin meat boiled to softness. Within is a pocket of black sesame seeds, lightly sweetened. The sesame seeds have a rich, thick flavor, reminiscent of sweet peanut butter. These are addicting.
I made a separate trip to visit Xi’an Famous Foods, the little shop next door. This is indeed famous, and has branched out to other locations in Queens and Manhattan. They specialize in the western-style food that you can find in Xi’an, which is known for its spicy noodles with bread. I opted to try a food that I think is meant to evoke the old Muslim Quarter of Xi’an: cumin lamb hamburger. This is marinated, shredded lamb meat heavily spiced with cumin and enclosed in something like an English muffin. It’s quite good, and makes a perfect snack or light lunch on a hot day.
Someone has created a shining silhouette of a tree with nails on a wall painted black. The room is dark, with a black ceiling and a blood red wall behind the bar. It feels a little like a club for moody teenagers. The room is filled with the high, nasal sounds of Thai conversation.
The shrimp come first. They are beautiful—shelled, whitish, and glassy. They rest in a circle on a bed of sliced cabbage, with thin slices of garlic cloves nested in their tails. They are marinated; the first bite yields complex flavors that take a moment to decipher. There is the aggressive sting of chili peppers; but there is also a cool, refreshing flavor that I think comes partly from galangal. The flavor of the shrimp comes through, of course, though it is more subdued perhaps than the flavor of cooked shrimp. I cannot detect any fermented fish flavor in the shrimp, which is what I expected the fish sauce to contribute, but this comes later, in the aftertaste.
The silkworms, when they come, are much more abundant than I had expected. And they are, well, not beautiful. They are fairly large, about the size of bees. They have a golden color, and they are ribbed, or segmented. They burst in your mouth, and release a flavor that is reminiscent of sesame. Mine are unevenly prepared—some of them are quite salty, almost like a soft version of roasted peanuts, and others have more of the natural flavor of the insect. I ask for a box to take most of them home.
Cantonese cooking seems to have spread across America before any other Chinese cuisine1. It dominated America’s instruction in Chinese food so completely that we use the Cantonese word wok for the frying pan rather than the Mandarin word, guo. Probably the primary reason for this dominance lies in immigration patterns—a large number of people immigrated to California and other parts of the U.S. from Taishan in Southern China in the 19th century, followed by immigrants from Hong Kong and Taiwan.
The décor here is generally uninspired: the walls have oak paneling and mirrors, and a gilt dragon curls around the back wall. The tables are all covered in plain linen table cloths. There are, however, some intriguing exhibits on one wall—small models of ceremonial vessels framed with text that I cannot read.
This consisted of jumbo shrimp resting on a bed of broccoli (steamed and crisp), smothered in slightly sweet mayonnaise and walnuts. The shrimp was tender, and magically infused with the flavor of walnut. It was slightly sweet, like the mayonnaise. Perhaps honey or some other sweetener was added. The walnuts were candied. The dish was heavenly.
The menu is extensive, but has pictures and is helpfully translated into Korean, English, and Spanish. I ordered pork xiaolongbao—pork dumplings (baozi) steamed in bamboo baskets—and stinky tofu. A legend printed on my table mat helpfully explained that xiaolongbao are from Jiangnan, a region encompassing Shanghai.
The stinky tofu earns its name. It has an odor resembling the odor of someone who hasn’t bathed in months. I am not sure exactly how this effect is achieved—apparently different regions have different methods of making the stuff—and I am not at all sure that this was Jiangnan style stinky tofu. But in general stinky tofu is made by fermenting tofu for several months. At You Garden, the stinky tofu is fried and smothered in sweet and sour sauce that is mildly spicy. Like most fermented foods, it has an interesting flavor, though it is not perhaps a wise choice for a main course.
The waiters, magically attentive without ever really seeming to be there, surprised me with a free dessert as soon as I finished my stinky tofu. It was a whitish liquid with white spheres floating in it: hot rice wine with sticky rice balls. Wonderful.
Xiao Dongbei lies north of Roosevelt Avenue on Main Street, where the crush of people shopping and strolling begins to dissipate. Wait staff in sharp black and white uniforms greet you and lead you into a curious dining area. The walls are padded with white cushions with embedded mirrors, and the tables—in a perfectly regular row—have white plastic tops (equipped with an electric burner for hot pot, an important part of Dongbei cuisine). Perhaps it is evocative of Manchuria for people with the right background; for me, it evoked a Stanley Kubrick movie.
The sauce was delicious. It was milder and thicker than soy sauce, and it had a hint of fresh vegetable flavor, almost like a sweet herb. I don’t know much about this sauce, but it likely has ancient roots: fermented soy pastes have been an important part of Chinese cooking since at least the sixth century, when cookbooks documented how to cultivate mold on boiled soybeans and then make a tasty paste out of the blackened beans under the mold. The tofu is an incongruous note in this dish: papery and nearly flavorless.
The ambience at Fu Run is very different from that at Xiao Dongbei. Red paper lamps and colorful paper animals hang from the ceiling, and large sheets of calligraphy hang framed from the wall. The long row of windows on one side face a leafy walkway leading to an apartment complex, lending the spot a peaceful atmosphere.
The home style noodles have a wonderfully nourishing taste, reminiscent of chicken noodle soup. Most of its flavor comes I think from meat stock assorted vegetables. Over a bed of noodles of medium thickness float wood ear fungus, carrots, and bits of pork. It is a simple and very satisfying dish.
The pig intestines with green pepper were delightful. Pig intestines are soft and chewy, and here they were covered in a savory sauce. The green peppers were bitingly hot, and this dish became difficult to eat without something to wash it down with.
Flushing’s Chinatown lacks the self-consciousness of Manhattan’s Chinatown; here there are not many shops selling Oriental fans and other trinkets to tourists, nor street vendors selling lucky bamboo in all fantastical forms. Instead, Main Street is packed with Chinese grocers and pharmacists, shops selling all kinds of house plants, and—of course—restaurants, many restaurants.
Braised beef tendon in brown sauce is a little like a stir fry, but the braising imbues all the mixed ingredients with a slightly slippery, oily quality. The tendon itself is soft but slightly chewy, flavorful but not as flavorful as fat. The dish also features wood ear fungus, bamboo shoots, peppers, onions, and peas. I am not sure what the brown sauce is. The flavor suggests it may be soy based, but it isn’t nearly as strong as soy sauce. There is no noticeable spice in the dish. The intent seems to be to showcase the natural flavors of the ingredients. It is tasty, but subtle, and it may strike some people as bland.
I also ordered “a little bit of everything” noodles. This was another very mild dish, and here the desire to showcase the ingredients’ natural flavors was clearer. The broth was slightly sweet and sour, and the noodles and wood ear fungus took this flavor. But the bits of egg floating in the soup had a surprising sulfurous flavor, tasting more strongly of egg than a hard-boiled egg.
The eastern gate to Queensistan lies at the intersection of Queens Boulevard and 63rd Drive. Cheburechnaya is a short walk south from here, and Bukharian Broadway is a short walk northwest. Women stroll along 63rd Drive in old-world dresses chatting in Russian, and some stores post their signs entirely in Cyrillic.
Just north of this intersection, you will find a rare jewel. Marani (which means ‘wine cellar’ in Georgian) is a Kosher Georgian restaurant, serving Georgian cheeses, spreads, kebabs, and dumplings (they have nearly everything Georgian you might want except Georgian wine; apparently no Georgian vintners have been certified Kosher).
I started with a sampler of Georgian spreads and a loaf of fresh-baked bread shaped like a leg of lamb. I was given three spreads on a platter: spinach and walnut, beet and walnut, and eggplant and walnut. The waitress explained that walnut was used to achieve a creamy taste and texture without using dairy (dairy foods are confined to a special bakery downstairs—which I will have to visit another time). Walnuts seem to be used heavily in Georgian food, however, so in this instance walnuts may have been a solution looking for a problem.
My main course was khinkali, meat-filled dumplings. These are almost identical to Tibetan momos. They have the same thick, chewy shell. They are filled with the same mixture of meat and soup. The only obvious difference is that khinkali are much larger than momos, and in fact, one must drink the soup from them before eating them. (My waitress gave me a short tutorial: ‘You turn it upside down; then you take a bite, and drink the soup out of it’.) I think the flavoring of the meat may be a little different as well; khinkali seem to contain dill and other herbs, but momos usually have more onion, garlic, and chilies. (Since traders from Central Asia would have passed through Georgia, this may strengthen the argument that momos are Central Asian.) The herbs used in the khinkali reminded me of the herbs used in chebureki; Caucasian and Central Asian cuisine seem to share some things in common, besides Queens addresses.