When it comes to restaurants, my wife Kate and I have much in common. We love a classic steakhouse, elegant French, our neighborhood Thai spot, spicy Indian, sushi, and Vietnamese. But over the years, one thing has become apparent: She is not the biggest fan of Chinese food. And I am, although “fan” might not go far enough in describing my devotion to the cuisine.
Growing up in Jersey, I’d go with my family about once a month to a place called New Peking. Their pork spareribs had that wonderful red glaze, the dumplings in the wonton soup were meaty, and the egg rolls were large and thoroughly deep fried (the kind with tiny bubbles on the skin). We’d also make frequent trips to New York City and inevitably have lunch in Chinatown. These were often dingy basement joints on Mott or Canal Street. Sometimes you’d hear a hacking cough coming from an unseen cook in the kitchen. And yet I have only fond memories of these places and the food—like sampling tiny snails in their shells, covered in a savory brown sauce. (The brown sauce is essential.)
Whenever we’d go on vacation, my family always searched out Chinese food. It became a quest. In Mazatlán, Mexico, we discovered a hole in the wall where the owner walked around swatting flies. At least two people became ill after that dinner. But thank goodness we found that Chinese restaurant!
In college, I fell in love with a place called Blue Diamond (the original name was Good Ho). To this day I have yet to find a General Tso’s chicken as perfect as theirs—they only used chicken breast pounded flat. During my sophomore year, I gave up Blue Diamond for Lent. It was one of the toughest Lenten sacrifices I’ve ever made. During my year studying abroad in Vienna, a friend and I would make weekly trips to a Chinese restaurant down the street (the fare was mild, in deference to the Austrian palate). But I also went to a separate Chinese establishment once a week—by myself.
My wife, on the other hand, was raised in Connecticut and recalls only one time going out for Chinese. Early in our marriage, we went to Oriental Gourmet, located in a nearby strip mall. Kate opened the menu and was immediately overwhelmed. I, on the other hand, knew the routine: Order a vegetable, a main dish with beef, pork, or chicken (or all three in a Happy Family), and a starch—either noodles or fried rice.
Kate’s main complaint is that the cuisine is too greasy and, obviously, unhealthy. It’s a valid point. The Center for Science in the Public Interest warns that “Chinese restaurant food is loaded with salt and—if you’re not careful—delivers a load of calories, thanks to its oils, noodles, and deep-fried batter or breading.” Orange beef supposedly contains two days’ worth of sodium. As for fried rice, CSPI asks, “Why blow three-quarters of a day’s calories on four or five cups of salted white rice, oil, and meat sprinkled with vegetable bits?” My answer: because it’s delicious.
Americans have always had a craving for Chinese. The earliest Chinese restaurants popped up in California with the arrival of thousands of immigrants from China following the 1849 Gold Rush and during the building of the Transcontinental Railroad in the 1860s. By 1896 there was a “chop suey craze.” In Ten Restaurants That Changed America, Paul Freedman devotes a chapter to the Mandarin, which opened in 1961 in San Francisco. The restaurant elevated Chinese food with offerings like Smoked Tea Duck, Beef à la Szechwan, Mu Shui Pork, and Chiao-Tzu, which came to be known as pot stickers. The menu also came with a lengthy explanation on how to order: “Chinese food is served ‘family style,’ with something for everyone, rather than a main entrée for each individual.”
In that spirit of family, I recently brought my two children to a local Chinese eatery. (My wife happened to be out with old friends.) We had jasmine tea, wonton soup, spareribs, roast pork fried rice, and sweet and sour chicken—all the classics. It was indeed oily, greasy, salty, and amazing. I explained to my kids how to take their tea and approach the dishes. I told them not to be afraid of using their hands to eat the ribs. They loved it.
When we returned home, they raved about dinner. “What did you like best?” asked their mother. “Fortune cookies!” they yelled. But we were also served orange slices. So you see, I explained to Kate, it wasn’t entirely unhealthy. She remains skeptical.
