We found an authentic Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t the cleanest place. The walls were stained. We sat at a booth where the table with its formidable carved wooden legs was a bit sticky. Although I hate to admit it, I think universally, greasy spoons have some of the best food.
The menu was extensive with some foods I’d never eat. There were dishes with feet, knuckles and stomachs but we opted for the noodles. The noodles are what the restaurant is known for. They are called Biang Biang, I think. Or is that the name of the symbol on the wall when you enter?
The lunch was fabulously satisfying. The noodles are homemade and stretched to an unbelievable length. Legend has it that the longer the noodle, the better your luck.
We were both very lucky. I ordered the noodle with vegetables and Rob ordered the one with lamb. His came with plenty of vegetables too. Bok choy, bean sprouts, scallions, carrots, and potatoes. Potatoes? I was surprised to find little squares of potato in a Chinese dish.
There was one noodle in each bowl. I spied a young woman stand up, stretching her noodle up over her head with her chopsticks, obviously delighted. Good luck indeed.
We were the only non-Asian people in the restaurant. Our formidable sticky table wasn’t the only thing in the restaurant that was authentically Chinese. The overhead lamps with branches running up the shades illuminating each booth, the huge round understated, but beautiful chandelier in the center of the restaurant, the character embossed floor tiles, and the replica terra cotta soldiers that greeted us at the door were all shipped in from China to this unpretentious restaurant in a downtrodden strip mall.
Before we even went in, I spied a worn disposable lighter alongside a small bit of trash I didn’t recognize on the sidewalk. “Leftovers from someone doing crack or meth,” Rob said.
We (I) opted to sit near a hazy, seemingly neglected window. We saw several sad people walk past. The first one was a zombie like figure with a wrinkled, yellow, emergency worker’s vest draped over his bony shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. His pants were cinched at the waist, obviously too big for his skeletal frame. Next, a woman with a knee brace pushing a shopping cart in place of a walker. Several other unsheltered, disheveled drug addicted men and women passed like specters.
Why was this fabulous restaurant in that area? They spent so much money importing every detail to a neighborhood I’d be hesitant to return to. Was it close to an Asian population I wasn’t aware of? Maybe, but I’m sure people would seek out the restaurant if it was in a different neighborhood. I saw a sign posted on the back wall that I’m not sure I’d ever seen before, except in movies and on t.v. shows. “We reserve the right to refuse service…” I imagine some of the transients probably wandered in at one time or another, prompting the need for some sort of defensive warning. I wondered if it is legal.
The waiter was fast, but nice, and checked on us several times. He asked the non-Asian questions which I very much appreciated. He asked about our spice preference. “Mine not too hot,” I replied, but Rob was okay with however it came. When he brought the food out, he asked if we were okay with the chop sticks or would we prefer forks. I opted for a fork. There was no judgmental look, as sometimes occurs when preferring a fork in an Asian restaurant. Before we got our food, I did see someone peek out at us from the kitchen. I wondered if he was gauging the degree of spiciness to apply based on my appearance. But still, I didn’t take that as being judgmental, just thoughtful.
We plan on going back there to try something different. As I said, the menu is extensive. Besides the foods I wouldn’t eat, there were plenty of dishes I thought looked good.
Rob said he probably wouldn’t go there at night. There is that seedy, uncomfortable, perhaps dangerous vibe right outside the door. But on Friday and Saturday nights, there’s a woman who plays a Chinese harp. We might have to chance it.