Restaurants

I just got back from a long weekend in Shanghai, where I fit in as much good eating as I could in 4 days. One place that had been on my must-visit list for a looooong time was Jia Jia Tang Bao, reportedly one of the best places for xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) in Shanghai. And since Shanghai claims xiaolongbao as a native food (others would argue that it orginated from surrounded towns), some afficionados think Jia Jia Tang Bao has some of the best in the world.

The ideal xiaolongbao, for the uninitiated, should have very thin, almost translucent skin, and equal parts soup and filling inside. I dream about these dumplings, and have tried so many poor versions that I want to cry every time. Often the skin is too think, sometimes there's not enough soup. When you are eating a perfect xiaolongbao, you should be worried about your clothes getting soup stains from a squirty dumpling.

Beijing is not known for bars that serve up well-mixed cocktails. In this city, nightlife itself is a fledgling concept, and most people's drink of choice is a bottle of cheap local beer. And don't get me started on rowdy, sketchy bars like the ones that got raided last Friday, whose atmosphere and alcohol quality remind me of a college frat party. Thank goodness for places like Q Bar, a classy little nook in south Sanlitun where bartenders shake and stir with expertise.

First off, the view of the city skyline from the 6th floor is great, as is the huge roof deck. And the cocktails - a range of martinis, revived classics, and special mixes like the rum-and-lychee-based G & E - ooze sophistication.

Then there's the food. Q Bar just started offering food, nicely plated and well-portioned for sharing. The grilled flatbread comes with a hummus dip and a wasabi cream cheese dip. The hummus dip was light, almost airy, and had something other than chickpeas that I couldn't quite put my finger on. As for the wasabi cream cheese, I can't say I've had that combo before, but there was just enough kick without being overwhelming.

The avocado lime dip for the chicken kebabs, also pretty light, was even better. After the chicken was eaten, I couldn't help finishing off the dip with flatbread.

The story of Jiumen Xiaochi (九门小吃）begins like many other stories of snack sellers in modern Beijing. Menkuang Hutong was a street where families sold traditional snacks using recipes and and skills that got passed down for generations. The hutong demolished some years back, to make room for new developments.

This story, though, has a happy ending. Eleven vendors got relocated to the new Jiumen Xiaochi, a collection of stalls now housed in a traditional courtyard. Some of these snacks, like bingtang hulu, can be found all over Beijing. Others, like flour tea, are a bit more unusual.

The restaurant is at the end of an meandering hutong off a larger road, not any place you would stumble upon. Jake and I made a lunch date and followed a map, walking 10 minutes or so from Jishuitan subway station. We bought a card from the reception desk (located in the dining area, not the entrance way), and ordered away.

Suanlamian, or sour and spicy noodles, was on display in its naked form. Instead of being doused with chilli sauce, the yellow and brown wheat noodles came with some peppers and cilantro on top, and a dish of chilli sauce on the side so you can adjust according to your spiciness threshold.

Two nights ago one of J's friends visited from Shanghai, and he was craving the nice succulent duck that virtually everyone craves after a long hiatus from Beijing. He had eaten Peking duck "hundreds of times" before, in Beijing and elsewhere, but laments that Shanghai has nothing close to what the capital offers. We laid out the options: one of the Quanjude restaurants around his hotel in Wangfujing, or go all out at the swanky Da Dong a short cab ride away. Hoping to get away from the tourist crowd, we jumped in the cab.

Turns out, Da Dong also had loads of tourists that night, including at least 4 or 5 tour groups led by a flag-waving guide. Fortunately, the restaurant's massive size, taking up 2 floors of a block-size tower, means that tour groups get their own rooms, and everyone else eats without being offended by bullhorns or matching baseball caps.

The one thing that Da Dong immediate has going for it is atmosphere. After eating at other duck restaurants around the city that go all out with faux (insert random Chinese dynasty) gaudiness, it was a relief to be in a kaoyadian with good lighting, comfortable modern furniture, and absolutely no mammoth cartoon duck statues by the door.

The wait was 20 minutes or so (on a Monday night), so we amused ourselves by watching the duck kitchen at work. The kitchen is right by the entrance, on full display like a museum exhibit. There are 4 or 5 brick ovens, each fitting 5 ducks at a time. Every 2 minutes or so one of the 20 chefs lined up would pull a duck from the oven, hang it on a rack, drain and wipe it, and prep it for table-side carving. The skin always glistened so beautifully, so temptingly. On the other side of the plexiglass, hungry visitors like us would sit, waiting and drooling.

Caviar over hard-boiled eggs, made during culinary school during our hors d'oeuvres module, was probably the only Russian food I had eaten until last night. Shameful, I know. I guess it's a good thing that I live in Beijing. Other than going to Russia or the northern Chinese city of Harbin, it is probably one of the best places to try Russian food for the first time. The high concentration of Russians in the city, the geographical proximity, the some very close, um, historical alliances between the two countries, most likely means authenticity won't be compromised.

If there's any doubt that China and Russia are still close buds, check out the Russian Embassy. The high golden gates, fortress walls, and palatial mansion that (at night) looks like something out of Monte Carlo are eons above the embassies that other countries get. For dinner last night J and I went to Trakktir Pushkin, just down the street from that opulent complex. Apparently this is where embassy folks go to dine, so I felt like we were in good hands. And I have a soft spot for restaurants named after writers.

First, the drinks. The alcohol menu listed a wide variety of vodkas and Russian beers, including, of course, Baltika. They also had three draft beers: one light wheat, one dark, and one green. We passed on the green (the menu said something about radiation, maybe tongue-in-cheek, maybe not) and ordered the dark. It was a lot like Guinness, black in color, slightly bitter, not very strong.

We also had to try the infused vodkas, and picked one flavored with mint and another with red currant. The red currant vodka came out in a mini martini glass, as if it was meant to be sipped as an apéritif. Of course, it was too strong to be an apéritif, but delicious just as well.

You normally don't think of "Chinese food" and "good cheese" in the same sentence. A fresh goat cheese called 乳饼 rǔbǐng, however, is one of the well-loved specialties of Yunnan cuisine. It comes from the Bai and Sani minorities of Yunnan province, and is made by heating fresh goat's milk with a souring agent until firm, then either pan-fried or steamed before serving.

You also don't normally think of eating cheese and sugar together, outside of cheese cake or manchego with quince paste. At South Silk Road in Qianhai, I recently had a dish of pan-fried goat cheese served with a side of sugar and another side of salt mixed with cracked black pepper. By itself, the cheese is already good, like a firmer, crispier paneer or even mozzerella. With the sugar and salt mixture on top, it was sublime. For a moment I wanted to plop it on sliced baguette and drizzle olive oil over it (sacriledge?). Then I realized how good it already was by itself, or with Yunnan ham and stir-fried greens.

South Silk Road is by no means the only restaurant that serves rūbīng, since it is as much a Yunnan restaurant staple as cross-the-bridge noodles. But if you're ever in the Houhai/Qianhai area, stop by S'Silk Road for the gorgeous lakeside views while dining. And to sample the best (okay, the only, but still delicious) cheese China has to offer.

"Is it dangerous for you to be seated right near the kitchen?" Jacob asked. Apparently he had noticed my gawking at all the desserts that streamed through the swinging doors. Everything was in high mounds, from mango shaved ice to chocolate pudding to green tea ice cream topped with red bean. Wow, I thought, these red beans are piled so high they're defying physics.

But dessert would have to wait.

We were at Bellagio at Shin Kong Place to try out the much hyped-about Taiwanese dishes. This restaurant is a favorite among the city's 20- and 30- something set, especially for late-night dining. Taiwanese food is as eclectic as American food, in that it incorporates bits and pieces from cuisines of people who settled there. Among the menu offerings were Hainan chicken, Cantonese congee, Hong Kong-style milk teas, and fish and pork ablaze with Sichuan pepper.

The Yunnan folk music playing in the restaurant was so soothing that the cricket noises blended right in. Then Jacob snapped me out of my daze and pointed to the middle of the room. A middle-aged couple was lovingly playing with their pet cricket, which was sitting on the table in a tiny glass jar.

The cricket continued to chirp sporadically throughout our meal. While it's more common to hear car honks in the middle of Beijing than crickets, it was easy to pretend for a while that we were in rural Yunnan. The restaurant was decorated in bright yellows and reds, with Dai minority folk art on the walls. And we were about to eat hearty Yunnan fare.

We started off with a Dai mint salad, a salad composed entirely of mint leaves, with a little minced garlic, chilli, and vinegar thrown in.

"Wow," said Jacob, after his first bite. "It's good, but you'd have to really like mint."

Fortunately, I do like mint enough to fill up my whole mouth with them. But soon I found out that dipping the mint in the Cross-the-Bridge noodles made it even better.

In my previous trips to Macau, I had only explored the Central and Southern parts of Macau island. On Valentine's Day, Jacob and I took another day trip to the former Portuguese colony and headed to a part that wasn't engulfed in casino and resort construction. After crossing the border, we hopped on a free shuttle to Hotel Lisboa, and from there caught a bus to Coloane, Macau's southernmost island.

Coloane is a tiny, laid-back island that is a great antidote to Central Macau's bustling streets. I, for one, was glad to get away from the diesel fumes and noise of motorcycle engines. (Motorcycles were out in full force yesterday, probably Spring Festival vacationers expending last bits of pent-up energy before starting work again.) Coloane Village is a nice place to walk around for an hour and admire the low-lying buildings that fuse Portuguese and Chinese styles. I was reminded of little villages in Lantau and Hong Kong's New Territories, where people leave their doors open and you can peak in and see what locals are eating for lunch, or watching on TV. (Not that I peak, of course.)

I made it to Zhongshan without any problems on the road, despite the furious winter weather that still rages north of Guangdong province. I had barely settled in when my parents announced we were all going to dim sum.

My parents would never let a visit pass without going to dim sum at least once or twice, especially at their apartment complex's restaurant. It's affordable, reliably good, and like Cheers, it's where everybody knows their names. "Hi 关先生 and 关太太...oh, your daughter's back again, huh? Must be an occasion to celebrate." "Would you like the usual table and your usual pot of tea?" After 20 years in the service industry in the US, it's no wonder my parents love being on the receiving end of good service in their retirement years.

Dish after dish came to our table. There were the usual har gow (shrimp dumplings in translucent wrappers) and Chiew Chow dumplings filled with pork and greens. Then came a web of something crisp with dumplings underneath. Turns out, these were pan-fried dumplings, except the pan-frying method was a tad more elaborate than swishing around a hot wok for a few minutes.