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.)