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I have been eating water spinach for as long as I can remember chewing food. Few children love vegetables, but even as a toddler I loved these long stalks of water spinach that stayed crunchy even when wilted. Of course, it helped that my parents never called it spinach.

The Chinese for water spinach is 空心菜 (kong xin cai)，which literally means "empty-hearted vegetable." Indeed, the long hollow stalks have the advantage of holding onto all flavorings they are cooked with. Unlike gai lan (Chinese kale) or plain old lettuce, it sops up sauce very well. Often cooks stir-fry it with fermented tofu. But I prefer what Chinese restaurants mean when they say "qing chao", or "clear stir-fry." 

(Photo by pointnshoot, CC)

Ed. - Say you're at your favorite Chinese take-out, feasting on moo goo gai pan and crab rangoon. "I bet they don't really eat this stuff in China," you think, recalling the Discovery Channel special on TV last month. You would be correct. But how did dishes like chow mein and the once ubiquitous chop suey, unrecognizable to anyone in China, become such so well-loved  in the US? Author Andrew Coe explores this and other mysteries of the Chinese-American culinary repertoire in his new book Chop Suey: A Cultural History of Chinese Food in the United States, which came out this week. In today's guest post, he gives a glimpse into the past and present life of chow mein.

Last summer when Jacob went to Budapest for a conference, he took an few hours to stroll around the city's "Chinatown." Except there wasn't much of one, at least not the kind with red-and-gold gates and tons of indistinguishable souvenir vendors - kitschy but telltale signs that a city at least tries to embrace its multicultural identity. 

With Hungary, the situation is a little more complicated. Through numerous conversations with Hungarians, many of them ultra-liberal on a range of political issues, there was an underlying resentment of recent Chinese immigrants. The country's Chinese population mostly consists of Fujianese who arrived starting in the 1980s, a good portion who may have entered illegally, and who have not really integrated into Hungarian society yet. It seems like an instance of vicious-cycle tension: newcomers keeping to themselves because of societal disdain, society feeling disdain because newcomers keep to themselves. Despite this, Chinese restaurants were doing okay business, though not nearly the lunch volume as their US counterparts

Is that laundry on those clothes lines? No, those sheets are are actually strands of noodles being hung out to dry. My roving correspondent shot this photo while cycling along the Sichuan-Tibetan highway. (Hint: he's a recurring character on the blog.)

I wish I had brought a camera to this wet market in Shanghai several weeks ago. Hidden away from the fish mongers, tofu mongers, and vegetable mongers, was a closet-sized room that was making a bit of noise. I peeked inside. Noodle makers were rolling out huge sheets of dough in what looks like an enormous pasta machine, and the same machine would cut strands about 20 feet long. They sold the noodles just a few feet away.

How's that for freshness?

Over the weekend, while biking to Shanghai's Silk Market, Jacob and I got lost in a maze of side streets. This was a side of Shanghai visitors seldom see. We rode past a few "free-range" chickens (with feet leashed to a pole, to prevent straying) pecking on some dirty lettuce. On the other side of the road was a scene that would never pass American health inspection, but which made my heart skip a beat.

Open air duck roasting! Now, I think Peking duck is a neat art form, but the elaborateness of the preparation, ordering, and eating gets tiring after the 20th time. Some days you just want a crispy, juicy duck without the fuss. For example, one you can pick up while whizzing by on a bike.

So what does the inside of the metal inferno look like?

Inside the drum, nude-colored ducks were neatly hung around a circle of flaming charcoal. 

The skin of the pre-roasted ducks appeared to have been lightly boiled, if only to remove the feathers. Some scallions and garlic cloves are stuck into the cavities. According to the duck stand vendor, the roasting takes only an hour. Then, he hangs the just-roasted ducks in his little wooden stand, behind a Plexiglass case, and sells them for only 12 rmb a jin (about 1 pound).

Now, America isn't the only country that adores fried Chinese food. In Japan, diners go wild for karaage, Chinese-style fried chicken. According to Maki from Just Hungry, "the word kara refers to China, meaning that this method of preparing chicken originated in Chinese cooking (age means deep-fried)". Like the Chinese, the Japanese also marinate their chicken with ginger "to get rid of any gaminess". (Check out Maki's recipe.)

If biting into the crispy shell of General Tso's chicken releases pent-up sugar, biting into karaage will unleash a dark and brooding mix of soy sauce and sake. Dark meat, skin on, is best. And this is a dish that begs to be washed down with cold sake or beer.

I came across this Edward Hopper painting today and, for a few minutes, tried to connect the image with the name. The painting is evocative of everything I associate with the 1920s: men in suits, chic flappers, and dim stylish interiors. Yet if you look closely, there is a terracotta teapot on the table. And try to decipher the restaurant placard outside the window. The restaurant and painting are both called "Chop Suey".

Ask Americans what comes to mind when they think of the Chinese restaurants. The adjectives you'll most likely get are along the lines of cheap, quick, and dingy with fluorescent lighting. Chinese restaurants are now the culinary equivalent of love motels. 

I'm not talking about banquet halls in Chinatowns that cater to the Chinese, which also tend to be lackluster. I'm talking about restaurants for the other 99.5% of America. Whether they know it or not, these greasy take-outs, Panda Expresses, and P.F. Changs serve as cultural ambassadors for Chinese food and culture. And what they represent is cheap food for the masses, not culinary sophistication.

I have the hardest time not ordering scallion pancakes when I go out for Chinese food. They make great appetizers when the entrees happen to take longer than five minutes. They absorb the sauce of your moo shu pork like a sponge. And your vegetarian friends can eat them with abandon. That said, few scallion pancakes beat the homemade version, when they come off the skillet hot and golden brown.

This recipe is long overdue. I put off posting a recipe until I had enough photos to go along with the instructions; like folding dumplings, making scallion pancakes is much more visual than your average stir-fry. I've eaten or seen too many that are too thick, or lack the flaky layers that define Chinese scallion pancakes. Also, they aren't supposedly to be as enormous as a Frisbee.

The good news is that once you get used to rolling out the dough, these will easily become part of your reportoire. There are few ingredients, most of which are pantry staples. And once you coax the dough into little patties, they can be refrigerated or frozen for future use. The one requirement is to put your woks away; use only a nonstick flat bottom skillet for pan-frying.

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Chinese Scallion Pancake