In one tray, glistening patties of tofu lay in neat rows. Another tray contained a salad with cooked greens, wood ear fungus, and roasted tofu. The row of trays contained other treats: pickled bamboo, spicy noodles, figs, and cookies. And, of course, a pot of rice sat at the end of the table. This is the kind of vegetarian fare that has drawn people to Buddhist temples in China for centuries. Standing over this display of foods, one can understand why the kitchens at these temples are often called Fragrant Vegetarian Kitchens.
But this was not China. I was at the Chan Meditation Center in Queens.
The nuns at the Chan Meditation Center refer to it as a temple, and indeed it performs all the functions of a temple, but its appearance might surprise people used to the most spectacular Buddhist temples of China, with their imposing architecture and statues. Within the Chan Meditation Center is a long room that feels a little like a lecture hall, with folding chairs facing a table at the far end. Behind the table is a modest shrine made of unpainted wood, on which rests a Buddha, flanked by a bronze bowl-shaped gong and a large gourd. Behind the Buddha is a line painting of Guan yin and two pieces of Chinese calligraphy.
This Sunday, open house at the Chan Meditation Center began with a discussion by the Venerable Chang Zhai on the essentials of Chan practice. In particular, her discussion focused on stopping wandering thoughts. This proposal requires some soul-searching for me, since I more or less make a lifestyle of wandering thoughts. It is comforting, however, that one of the methods she described uses rather than rejects words. She spoke of huatou (话头), which can be translated as “origin words” (literally, “head words”). These are questions that cannot rationally be answered. She gave three examples: “Who drags this corpse around?”, “Who is reciting the Buddha’s name?”, and “What was my face before I was born?” These are all what she called sihuatou, or dead huatou, since they have come down to us from antiquity—but we can make up our own.
When the discussion was over, someone clapped with wood blocks, the Venerable Chang Zhai retreated to another room, microphones and cameras were rapidly removed, and the trays of food were brought out. A nun came to the table and helped herself to a modest portion of food, and then turned to me and invited me to follow.
I tried a little of everything. All of the dishes had been prepared with a similar vision: they all highlighted the natural flavors of their ingredients, mild with a cleansing freshness. The tofu was savory but light and the salad was rich with different flavors, but left the palate clean. This was an excellent meal.
“Have you ever been to any Buddhist events before?” a fellow sitting next to me asked. I told him I had some exposure to Tibetan Buddhism.
“Same thing, different flavor,” he responded.
Chan Meditation Center
90-56 Corona Ave
Elmhurst, NY 11373
Open house
Sundays, 11am – 4pm
$5 donation suggested for lunch
Where the Port Washington-bound LIRR crosses Broadway, a bright red awning advertises hand-pulled noodles and northern dumplings. Under this awning is one of the homiest restaurants in Elmhurst. Tall windows and glass doors wrap around the front of the building, admitting plenty of light to the dining area. The dining area is roomy (if crowded) with a high ceiling. A large bronze relief sculpture depicting river boats hangs on one wall.
No corner in this neighborhood is too small for something interesting to develop. My friend stopped at a florist on Roosevelt Avenue and pointed out a tiny stall selling a variety of treats—but mainly douhua, or creamy tofu. Behind the window, a woman tended a vat of soy milk and a cooker full of hot tofu; cups of sweet ginger syrup sat in stacks to her side. I took a sample of this home. Mixing the sweet ginger syrup with the douhua makes an excellent treat—simple, mildly sweet, and very tasty.
The braised pork came mixed with roasted peppers and covered in sauce. The first bite is surprising: a candied flavor, like honey-covered walnuts, fills your mouth. This is a captivating dish. It is no wonder Chairman Mao (a native of Hunan) liked it so much.
The menu at Uncle Zhou’s in Elmhurst is divided by noodle type: hui mian, la mian, and dao xiao mian. Hui mian, the wide, braised noodles of Henan, top the list. This is natural. Uncle Zhou is from Henan, and his restaurant proudly specializes in its cuisine.
It is impossible to understand most of this text (to select an early instance of its difficulties: “’And’ refers to dissolve the East as a whole, unified, soluble salt hot and sour to sweet for a tripod for the blind, for the and.”). But the details don’t matter. The point is that Henan bears the imprints of countless generations—the Buddhas carved in Henan’s caves and the stories of “devil’s markets” of Kaifeng that opened at midnight and closed at dawn—and the cooking of Henan has a similarly rich background.
The dish brought to me was a bowl full of folded, strap-like noodles with bok choy, smelling like peanuts. I immediately bit into the noodles, but the waitress came to my table and corrected me. “You have to stir to get oil.” So I stirred the noodles, and they became coated with reddish oil.
I came another time to try Uncle Zhou’s dao xiao mian. Dao xiao mian (often translated in English as knife-scraped noodles) do not originate in Henan, but in the more easterly Shanxi Province. I do not know the subtleties of the preparation of all the different kinds of noodles, but it is said to take someone who already knows how to prepare la mian several months to learn to prepare dao xioa mian, so I think there are differences in the way the dough is kneaded for the different kinds of noodle. The definitive step seems simple enough: to make dao xiao mian the noodle maker takes a loaf of kneaded dough and