bad metaphor

“Where’s mah dinner?!”

Since I’ve lived in Lawrence, anyone who knows me is well aware of my constant bitching and moaning about the lack of decent Asian cuisine here. I save most of my ire for The Orient, because of its claim to serve “Vietnamese” food, but that extends to Chinese food as well. This is a college town, after all, so understandably there are several cheap buffet outlets to choose from. There’s not much to complain about for those who are satisfied – even to the point of actually craving – the mucous, glue-like sugary substance that coats interchangeable faux-Chinese dishes like “chop suey” (more like “slop gooey”) or “General Tso’s chicken” (he must be to intestinal tracts what Sherman was to Georgia). Rarely have I ever eaten at a cheap Chinese buffet without paying the price, later, in the toilet.

When I heard that Panda Garden added a Chinese menu, I was suddenly hopeful despite my skeptic nature. Watching episode after episode of “No Reservations” has made me crave crispy pork so obsessively that it has moved me to actually plan a trip to Asia this summer, just so I can feel that delicately explosive crunch in my mouth (*cough* thatswhatshesaid *cough). E owed me a lunch, so we went there today to scope it out. While driving there E expressed anxieties about requesting the Chinese menu, for some reason. “What do I say? I’d like the real Chinese menu, not the fake one. Won’t they be offended?” Used to this, I was all “pssh, whatever,” but that did little to convince him. Until we walked in and the hostess looked at me and barked: “Chinese menu?” Yes, please! Racial profiling can actually come in handy sometimes.

I spied the line for crispy pork on the “secret” menu and didn’t need to look any further, or so I thought. By now, even though reason told me it would be nothing like the slow-turning, perpetually basted in coconut milk for 24 hours over a steady fire, crispy pork featured in the “Indonesia” episode of No Reservations – or even the less sublime but still absolutely tasty looking samples I’ve had in good Chinese restaurants – I didn’t care if it wasn’t likely to be optimal. I just wanted it. Eli was feeling adventurous enough to order from the Chinese menu, but hedged his bets and ordered a bland sounding vegetarian dish of potatoes. The waiter took our orders and left. A few minutes passed, in which I dreamed blissfully of sinking my teeth into that blazoned rotating boar, making the “crispy pork skin” sound effect they use on NR, which sounds like someone bashing in a car window…

The owner of the restaurant, a stout goodly Chinese matriarch, interrupted my reverie with a tumble of Chinese words. “Sorry, I’m not Chinese,” I admitted bashfully. “Oh, you not? You look Chinese. Well – don’t order this, this crispy pork, it’s not that good, I don’t think you like it.” Oh? “Yeah, not so good. Better get this instead.” She pointed a long nailed finger at the Kung Pao chicken, probably the item on the menu that looked least appealing to me at that point due to lack of crunch factor.

“What about the pork belly?” “Oh, that….okay, but too fatty. This one, this chicken much better.” Now I know full well not to argue when the owner / chef of an establishment so vehemently recommends or dissuades from a particular dish, so I relented, with a lingering bit of sadness. Eli looked appalled. But she was probably right. Nothing would put me in a fouler mood than, after dreaming of my Platonic ideal crisped pork skin, having to chew on a soggy limp facsimile (thatswhatshesaid, reprise).

And she was right! Instead of stringy poultry smothered in a thick brown syrup, as I feared from the name “Kung Pao chicken,” it was a very simple, yet tasty dish of nicely cooked chicken in a light garlicky, gingery sauce. As the two of us chowed down, the matriarch came back and informed us that we would not be getting the potato dish Eli ordered – “because it not that good either, too boring” – but instead a fish entree, which she assured us was “good for brains.” I think this was a catfish cooked in a thick sauce with some mushrooms? It was fine, and probably a lot better than the potato dish would have been, but I preferred the Kung Pao.

Our waiter came back to ask if we were satisfied with our meal, “even though you didn’t get a single thing you’d ordered?” Yes, and I actually would probably be displeased otherwise. If a chef has obvious passion for a certain dish, I think it’s more likely to be better than something slopped on a plate because there was demand for it. Though, this does lead me to ask: why serve something you don’t think is very good? Maybe the answer is that though it might be considered good enough for regular ol’ Americans, who have been deprived of knowing the joys of a properly crisped skin (and who would probably just peel it off anyways, the blasphemy) – we Asians have glimpsed that heaven, and would judge her pale offerings harshly.

If you try it out, and you happen to be Asian, save yourself the trouble of ordering and possibly arguing with the matriarch. Just go ahead and get the Kung Pao chicken! Your tastebuds will thank you. If you are not Asian, umm…just disregard this post. The buffet is great, I’m sure!

Edit: Bonus fortune cookie action :

I love it when fortune cookies are ballsy enough to be specific.

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