Tag Archives: chinese restaurants

Kou Shui Ji at ZenZen Taste

New, very good Chinese place out by West Towne:  ZenZen Taste, featuring what Steph Tai calls “contemporary Chinese” food, neither traditional nor Americanized.

I have had Szechuan peppercorn before but never so much Szechuan peppercorn as in their kou shui ji (literally “saliva chicken,” here rendered “mouth-watering chicken.”)  It is hard to describe in words what this actually does to your mouth.  To an extent you feel you have chewed a lemon.  At the same time your lips buzz as if you’ve eaten something spicy-hot and salty.  When you drink water, the water tastes sour and fizzy.  How much kou shui ji did I eat?  I ate two bites of kou shui ji.  I was defeated by the kou shui ji.

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La wei si ji dou, or: eat at Fugu

At last there’s an acceptable, even pretty good, Chinese restaurant in downtown Madison:  Fugu, in the space formerly occupied by the misleadingly named Yummy Buffet.  (OK, to be fair, it was actually a buffet.)  It’s billed as pan-Asian but the management is from Hong Kong, and I’ve done well by sticking to the Chinese portion of the menu.  I particularly liked a dish called “cured meat with string beans,” which consisted mostly of very tender, very flavorful, very salty dry-cooked green beans, lightly sauced and studded with little ovals of something like a cross between Hebrew National salami and beef jerky.  The waiter told me the meat was pork but wasn’t able to give any further description.

Here’s how the dish was identified on the menu:


I decided to figure out what this actually meant — partly because I liked the dish so much, partly because I was interested to see if I could still use a Chinese dictionary, something I learned to do when I attempted to learn Chinese in high school.  I spent every Sunday morning of senior year going to Potomac Chinese School, where I was placed in a group consisting of non-Chinese adults and Chinese-American kids who had gotten kicked out of their regular class.  Suboptimal pedagogical environment.  And Chinese is really hard.  So I didn’t learn more than the rudiments, and I could never manage to say anything without waving my head in sync with the inflections.

I did learn how to look things up in the dictionary, though.  Here’s the trick:  each character has a kind of “fundamental piece,” usually the simplest element of the character.  In the second character above, it’s the little box on the left-hand side.  The fundamental pieces are listed in the dictionary in order of strokes; the little box has just three, so you find it on the list of three-stroke fundamental pieces, then you look at the sublist of “characters which are a little box + a five-stroke secondary piece,” and that’s a short enough list to search by eye, finding that 味 is “wei,” which means flavor.

The second character, 四, is one I remembered — it means “four.”  But I looked it up anyway, and was rewarded with the compound 四 季, “si ji”, which means “four seasons.”

Now here’s the part where it gets easier than it was when I was in high school — you can Google “wei si ji,” and you quickly find a menu offering “chuan wei si ji dou.”  And the character for “dou” is exactly the 豆 you’re looking for.  So you’ve got four out of five.

I tried to use Google magic to figure out the first character, but no use — I had to figure out the fundamental piece and look it up by hand.  This was the hardest part, but I eventually found out it was “la,” which means “sausage.”

So now we’ve got the whole thing:  “la wei si ji dou,” or something like “sausage with four-season flavor and beans.”

But of course this isn’t right — Googling various contiguous chunks of characters, you find that “si ji dou” is just the name of a particular kind of string bean.  According to this page,

The reference in the name “si ji dou”, (lit: four season bean) is likely due to the beans’ heartiness, and farmers’ ability to grow it in almost any season.

And “la wei” is the name of the meat:  according to a Chinese friend of a friend, “smoked or preserved pork sausage, similar to salami.”

In other words, the Chinese name of the dish is “cured meat with string beans.”

I still say the hour I spent doing this was worth it.  You never know when you might need to look something up in the Chinese dictionary, and now my skills are fresh.

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Two estimation questions

It\’s apparently customary, when being interviewed for a job in the consulting industry, to be asked to estimate various numerical quantities:  how many cars are rented each week in the United States?  What proportion of the total mass of American citizens is made up of males?  I think that in asking these questions the interviewer is testing your ability to carry out rapid approximate quantitative reasoning, or, alternatively, to make confident assertions about whose truth you\’re almost completely ignorant — both important skills in that line of work.

Anyway, here are two questions.  I know the answer to the first one, and will reveal it tomorrow.  Put your unreasonably confident answers in comments!

  1. What is the total number of living alumni (all degrees) of UW-Madison?
  2. What is the population of the largest U.S. city without a Chinese restaurant?

Update: (24 Mar)  Commenter QXW is in the lead on question 2, observing that the city of Rye, NY (pop. 14,955) has no Chinese restaurants per Google Maps.  Can it really be true?

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The modal Chinese restaurant

I had lunch at the new Orient Express in Middleton today. On the recommendation of a Chinese-food-loving colleague I ordered the shui zhu yu, or “boiled fish” — not on the menu, but apparently a house specialty. The dish consists of chunks of boneless white fish in a soup that’s about half broth, half oil. That’s too much oil for my taste, so I mostly spooned out the fish — perfectly cooked, moist, salty, and delicious — and ate it over rice. I’ll be back. The ma po to fu, kung pao chicken, and beef chow fun also come recommended by the C-f-l c.

Anyway, the uninventive name of this restaurant made me wonder what the modal Chinese restaurant name is. Google Maps finds 67 Chinese restaurants called “Orient Express.”

But this isn’t even close to the champ, as the following table demonstrates:

Garden Palace Wok Buffet
China 666 241 681 1,335
Peking 215 67 58 47
Szechuan 58 16 8 47
Imperial 97 81 15 30
Jade 297 83 6 21

The Google Maps numbers are somewhat unreliable; the “buffet” column in particular seems to include many places which have a buffet but aren’t actually called “Buffet.” But however you slice it there are a hell of a lot of Chinese restaurants called “China Buffet,” and I invite readers to suggest any other name that offers it serious competition.

Update: One of my Chinese-food informants tells me that you’re in fact not supposed to eat the oily soup.

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