“You’ve never had xiaolongbao? They’re the bomb.”

Typically, when “the bomb” is used is a predicate, I expect disproportionate amounts of irony or gravity. Not so in this instance: When Boykji drops “the bomb,” the delivery mechanism tends to be an oversized grin. The target tends to be my stomach.

Since we first shared a steamer of pork soup dumplings at Oakland’s Shanghai Restaurant, I’ve gone on to drop the xiaolongbomb wherever it seems the obvious choice. But the more food enthusiasts become aware of this humble yet refined Chinese delicacy, the more I come across conversations that leave the binary charm of “the bomb” and enter the tedious tabulation of “best soup dumpling” comparisons.

It’s not that I don’t believe in culinary standards. It’s just that after eating xiaolongbao at locally and internationally revered outposts like Arcadia’s Din Tai Fung and Queens’ Nan Xiang Xiaolongbao, I’ve learned that xiaolongbao in this country are either “the bomb” or “not the bomb.” Anyone who pays attention to the details of what she’s eating will be able to pick a side immediately. Anyone who can describe the finer points of soup dumpling structure is capable of expressing his preferences without being dogmatic about how to measure a bite of food.

At the end of the day, most Americans who talk about xiaolongbao – present conversationalist included – have never been to Shanghai. And even in Shanghai, soup dumplings don’t play by one set of rules. This attitude is what allows me to declare that the soup dumplings at Manhattan Chinatown’ 456 Shanghai are just as enjoyable as the soup dumplings I’ve had at Nan Xiang Xiaolongbao, Din Tai Fung, Shanghai Restaurant, and any other restaurant in America that consistently drops the bomb. I happen to gravitate towards small, thin-skinned and delicate xiaolongbao – more at the dumpling end than the bun end of the scale – and 456 churns out steamers of this type without pause.

My stance on shengjianbao is even less militant. My experience with these pan-fried, juice-filled pork buns is extremely limited, but that hasn’t stopped me from relishing 456′s enormous plates of “tiny fried buns with pork” (absurdly priced at $4.95 for eight bao the size of McDonald’s hamburgers).

While more dense than I’d like, they’re as good as 456′s soup dumplings. The bottom of each bun is anointed with a golden brown ring, the body of the bun pleasing upon service but completely lifeless when left to cool. One bite releases a small stream of fatty pork juices, and the mildly flavored nugget of meat inside is satisfying. If this bao isn’t the type to end an argument, it’s still the kind of food that sparks conversations, and a welcome start to any meal.

As it turns out, the megaton player at 456 Shanghai is neither bun nor dumpling. It’s “Ningbo Fried Two Delights,” a platter of filleted yellow fish, deep fried in wrappers made of tofu skin, then presented in a circle anchored by breaded, fried pork chops. The fried tofu skin matches hefty crunch with meaty chew, while the fish locked inside remains delicately tender, as if freshly steamed. As with xiaolongbao, attention to detail in this dish belies the simplicity of its enjoyment; it’s refined, not ornate.

Highlighted by former Times dining critic Sam Sifton, 456′s eggplant in garlic sauce is more obviously a knockout of flavor and texture: slightly crisp edges, succulent flesh, and a seasoning job that brightens the taste buds with a skillful balance of sweet, spicy, and savory flavors. It’s an undeniable crowd pleaser, not to be left off a group order.

From the restaurant’s mix-and-match starch menu, rice cakes with seafood is a nice counterpoint to 456′s bolder offerings. The oval-shaped cakes are wok-fried with bits of green and a generous spread of scallops, squid, shrimp, turning out a clean-tasting bowl of seafood with smoky undertones. This combination would be too redundant to enjoy on one’s own (I would prefer a stronger sautee), but when shared with friends alongside more heavily seasoned selections it’s an appreciable addition to the table.

Is 456 Shanghai the bomb? Examined defensively, it certainly is not. Taken in stride, it’s good enough to make me play the Chinatown card. After all, I’m not one to turn down an excuse to eat soup dumplings or romanticize Doomsday.

456 Shanghai Cuisine
69 Mott St.
New York, NY 10013
212.964.0003

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Pure Thai’s menu, especially its lunch menu, offers a variety of “snacks” that blend street food and home cooking under a chef’s meticulous hand. The results are so consistently flavorful that my favorite dish on a recent lunch visit was the Grilled Spicy Beef Salad ($7.50). A boldly flavored toss-up of romaine lettuce, watercress, cherry tomato, red onion and green apple, the salad is garnished with expertly grilled strips of beef, sprinkled with toasted rice and dried chilies, and dressed lightly in fish sauce and sweetened lime juice. The sharpness of each flavor, playing on contrast and riding the freshness of it all, is an astonishing encounter in a city of salad bars.

Pure Thai Cookhouse
(formerly Pure Thai Shophouse)
766 Ninth Ave.
New York NY 10019
212.581.0999

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I’ve been too beleaguered by a nasty cold to spread the word properly over the past week, but in case you haven’t heard from the rest of the city: Real Cheap Eats NYC now has 22 more recommendations under $10. This season we’re keeping things relatively lean, with one recommendation per blogger (except for newcomer Chris Crowley, who’s joined our staff on behalf of the Bronx). If you’re a New Yorker or have any plans on being in the boroughs this season, check it out and start eating cheaply!

You can also keep up with Real Cheap Eats via Facebook, Twitter, our NYC blog, and our new Foursquare List. New stories from The Eaten Path are on the way… eventually…

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Even better is “Sev Batata Puri” ($5.99 for seven), a fantastic but unassuming South Indian selection from the appetizer menu. Aangan’s rendition of dahi puri (by far the most memorable snack of my trip to Lucknow, India), the dish starts with sev puri – crisp, hollowed rounds of fry bread resembling paper-thin pastry puffs. The irregular rounds are stuffed with potato, chickpea and light ribbons of tamarind chutney. The entire plate of puri are then dressed in raita, garnished with fresh cilantro, dusted with ground spices and sprinkled with extremely light sev. Taken cold, these one-pop precursors to curries and flat breads simultaneously serve the roles of refreshment and kindling for any appetite.

Hamro Aangan Indo-Nepalese Cuisine
856 San Pablo Ave.
Albany, CA 94706
510.524.2220

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It’s hard to believe that this blog has been alive for four years. It’s even harder to believe that in 2010 and 2009 I was able to bring on contributors from dining destinations are far-flung as Shanghai, Tokyo, Bonn, Majorca and even the American midwest.

2011 wasn’t quite as robust, since The Eaten Path was whittled down to an intermittent series of stories and reports from California and New York. Still, Zach and I are happy to continue the year-end tradition of recounting our favorite meals while avoiding the disposable terror that is the “best of” list. Let’s make 2012 one for John Cusack to remember.

Zach

The closest restaurant to my apartment changed its name a few months back. Sichuan restaurant Panda Country Kitchen hired a Manchurian-born chef (Chef Xue from Little Sichuan in San Mateo) and became Dong Bei Mama, one of few Northeastern Chinese restaurants in the city. The most experience I have with Northern Chinese cuisine comes in the form of Mongolian BBQ in malls, or “Chai-Na-Taoon” in Moscow’s A.C.T. I’m curious to expand my experience at Dong Bei Mama in 2012 with more adventures into Chinese sauerkraut and shredded potato. And I will, I promise.

But in 2011 something stopped me. When Dong Bei Mama replaced my favorite Sichuan restaurant, it didn’t change the classic Sichuan dishes, like Tea-Smoked Duck and Mapo Tofu, and it didn’t change my favorite order, Fish Fillet With Tofu in Spicy Sauce. Almost once a week I order in for the same dish, walk down the street in my slippers and pajama pants, and slurp rock cod and soft tofu smothered in chili sauce. It’s my favorite meal in S.F., and ordering something else off the menu will be my hardest New Years resolution yet.

James

As Serious Eats’ barbecue columnist, I’ve learned that there are two kinds of barbecue: technical and essential.

Technical barbecue is the kind of food befitting the 21st century of food conversation. The talk of technical barbecue reduces to an assembly of temperatures, techniques, and regional imprimaturs. This is the barbecue of competition finals, the barbecue of businesses with social media plans. It’s the barbecue with a board of investors. The investments may be made in dollars, in bureaucracy, or in the burning itch that can only be scratched with words like “authenticity” or “best of the best.”

The food itself at a technical barbecue may be fantastic. It may be inspired. But it will never be a styrofoam box of rib tips at Uncle John’s BBQ, where I learned firsthand this year that Chicago’s barbecue is truly essential.

Essential barbecue is the craft that’s so bred into the local hardware that it probably wouldn’t recognize the new place that food bloggers are flocking to uptown. It’s the barbecue that came up on patience and a lack of options. It’s the barbecue that is flavored by time — not hours in the smoker, but decades in the family. It’s what American food has to show for itself after a century of intensely local culinary adaptation. And it’s what American food stands to lose if the wonderful diversity of low-flying, casually preserved smoke joints is replaced by the next proven recipe for a perfectly cooked, award-winning brand.

I tend to avoid meals with something to prove. And while barbecue is often tasked with the burden of proof, the value of the craft lies in something much more weighty than authenticity. It lies in something that isn’t altogether apparent until the lady on the other side of the rotating, cash window whispers through plexiglass with a sideways grin, “Want that SPICY?”

It lies in the pool of thick, greasy barbecue sauce that’s draped over a heap of crunchy, meaty rib tips kicked into a shameless charcoal funk. Below the tips sits a bed of once crisp french fries, now sponges for the pooling red liquid, waiting to become an impromptu filling for two slices of white bread that have just been used as napkins. It’s something that can’t be reproduced without a South Side Chicago park, a pair of bleachers near the point of collapse, and a taste of the town that will change the way one feels about hunger.

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There are, of course, other reasons for choosing US-101 over I-5 if a trip calls for traversing the 400 miles between Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay. While I have fond memories of blazing along the speedy yet desolate 5 during my college years – stopping for lunch at Kettleman City’s mirage-like In-N-Out and sealing every inch of the vehicle moments before breezing by the cattle concentration camp at Coalinga pass – I’ve since learned that a leisurely crawl along the 101 is undeniably more pleasurable.

Beyond bearing the advantages of traveling on a highway with more than two lanes and more to look at than absolutely nothing, US-101 is a wonderful route for the hungry. Just a couple of hours out of Los Angeles, a stop at La Super Rica is good enough to warrant its own trip. Closer to the Bay, the 101 passes through Gilroy, whose status as “garlic capital of the world” is assured by the confident scent that seeps into every car rolling on by. The banners of In-N-Out dot the highway from end to end. And in the central coast farming town of Santa Maria, Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacan Numero Dos makes a compelling case for taking the long way as often as possible.

This roomy ice cream parlor in downtown Santa Maria, bearing the mark of Michoacán, was the highlight of my summer road trip to the central coast, where Boykji, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Zakhar and I were tearing through tri-tip, steak, scotch, and board games in the spirit of summer. We found our way to Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacana No. 2 on a Chowhound tip from the indomitable Melanie Wong and were immediately dumbfounded by the variety of paletas stocked in just one of the palor’s freezer cases. After plenty of gawking, followed by the awkward shuffle between two dancers whose left feet are each other’s native tongues, Boykji and I chose eight paletas for the crew to sample.

We didn’t touch any of the hundred-plus other frosty confections available – not because we doubted a Michoacana’s skill with ice cream, but because a freezer full of paletas is enough to keep one’s palate enchanted for days. Whereas American popsicles tend to be little more than icy vessels for sugar and food coloring, their Mexican counterparts embody a rich variety of flavors and textures, turning every good paleta into a distinctly refreshing memory.

At Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacana No. 2, fresa (strawberry) is entirely different from fresa y crema (strawberry ice cream), though both contain frozen chunks of ripe strawberry. A nuez (walnut) paleta is nothing like a pistachio paleta in flavor or in texture; the former has a deep, bourbon-like taste and a layer of grit, while the latter – in the classically unfortunate terms of pistachio ice cream – retains the artificial taste of a gumball dropped in salted nuts.

Rompopo con pasas (eggnog with raisins) is a different beast altogether: entirely unmitigated in its use of rum, studded with frozen, taffy-like raisins, and altogether heartier than any of the other flavors we sampled. Arroz resembles an iced rice pudding more than a frozen horchata, with a distinctly dense and and chewy texture. These two paletas struck me as mas lindas, transcribing hallmark concoctions into a treat more satisfying than its source material.

I still wonder how the mixed fruit paleta earned the name “tutti frutti.” Whether or not I find out, I’ve decided “tutti frutti” will be the name of my Mexican-ice-cream-themed ranchera band’s first record. Expect a debut tour along US-101.

Paleteria Neveria Linda Michoacana No. 2
917 N. Broadway
Santa Maria, CA 93454
805.928.8225

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This is how I feel about bo zai fan, a Cantonese clay pot rice dish that recently became one of my most treasured meals. I had a sense of the dish already, having enjoyed it a few times at Chinatown’s A-Wah. But negative reports from the same Chowhounds who had put it on the map, along with a strong tip from Kathryn, led me to Noodle Village, where the dish is listed inconspicuously as “hot pot rice.” While A-Wah’s take is no Snot Boogie, the clay pot rice at Noodle Village is a real eye-opener.

The concept behind bo zai fan is extremely simple: Cooking and serving rice in a clay pot allows the bowl to transform the grains closest to its edges into a layer of crunchy, semi-caramelized delight. Noodle Village’s rendition ($9.50) arrives steaming, sizzling and topped with your choice of minced pork, pork spare ribs (my favorite), Chinese sausage, chicken, beef, or frog.

This moment, however, is mere prelude. Before diving in, mix the contents at the center of the pot, drizzling the sweet, extra thick soy sauce that arrives with your pot more liberally than common sense dictates. Inhale the intoxicating aroma as you learn forward to scoop up your rice and begin eating. Add more soy sauce as needed, as well as the occasional drizzle of chili oil if you desire an extra kick. And when you’re halfway through, scrape the crunchy, chewy layer from the bottom of the pot to cap the meal with a bite even better than the first. It may be unremarkable compared to the real deal in Hong Kong, but as long as I live one stop away from Chinatown, I’ll be chasing that moment at every opportunity.

Noodle Village
13 Mott St.
New York, NY 10013
212.233.0788

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Toddy, which is not described on the menu as the product of milk and powder, is Pepsi’s Venezuelan parallel to Nestle Quik. For better or for worse, toddy doesn’t deviate from that formula at Arepas Cafe. Perhaps its a taste of childhood, but my childhood happened to call for several more heaping spoonfuls of artificial flavoring.

Chicha, a Venezuelan dessert preparation not at all resembling a strawberry-hued bender with Tony Bourdain or a kernel-spitting session at Dogfishhead Brewery, is a much better option. A hearty relative to horchata, chicha de arroz is full-bodied and viscous, with a simple, straightforward flavor.

Each sip pulls against the force of gravity and lingers on the tongue – almost more pudding-like than milky, and emboldened by more than a pinch of cinnamon. An ice-cold glass of the stuff is filling and refreshing, making the perfect dessert for two after a double header of sweet and savory arepas.

Arepas Cafe
33-07 36th Ave.
Queens, NY 11106
718.937.3835

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Agreement on this sentiment is a bond I share with Mike, the daytime cook at Kuti’s Place. As he carves slices of fatty lamb from the glistening, heavily stacked spit of slow-roasted meat near the window, he tells me that while he’s a born-and-bred Brooklynite, living for the city isn’t about being its master.

This is where he’s from, where he is, and despite finding California life as pleasant as it’s made out to be, he’s back in the boroughs. Just like I know I’ll leave New York to build something real for myself on the West Coast, his mastery of shawarma is just one bite into the place he calls home.

It’s a bite that makes me want to put down roots, even as the West African businesses around the corner are dropping like flies. The slices of well-done lamb in this $6 wrap are juicy, flavorful, and nicely browned. Going well beyond lettuce, tomato and onion, the rest of the filling is an enriching blend of stewed peas, green beans, and freshly chopped peppers. Drizzled with what seems like tahini, wrapped in a floppy sheet of lavash, then grilled to a light crunch in a panini press, Kuti’s shawarma is a taste of the city that humbles and satisfies in one fistful of New York flavor.

Kuti’s Place
355 W. 116th St.
New York NY 10026
(212) 222-1127

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Containing white rice soaked in a spicy marinade, a portentous mixing bowl greets the happy diners at Flushing’s Tong Samgyeop Gui with the scents of chili paste and sesame oil. For $2 a bowl, the mixture inside is gently plastered onto hot domes of cast iron. The resulting dish, known simply as bokkumbop (“fried rice,” but listed here as “bibimbap”), is best ordered after a full serving of Tong Samgyeop Gui’s excellent pork belly, a full course of meat, vegetables and banchan that leaves behind a savory film of juices and seasoning for the rice to absorb as it develops a crust.

After flipping this layer of rice to caramelize the other side, the staff toss handfuls of dry, roasted seaweed atop to heighten the mixture’s most satisfying flavors. Diners scrape the completed dish off the griddle in browned yet rosy chunks, each grain popping with a bottomless feeling of satisfaction. Korean food has never tasted more comforting, and for once, another shot of soju sounds just about right.

After all, the next train back to Penn Station is just another hour away.

Tong Samgyeop Gui
162-23 Depot Rd.
Flushing, NY 11358
718.359.4583

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