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Red-hot Sichuan chain the busiest spot in winter cold
By Aubrey Buckingham |
January 4, 2009, Sunday
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Print Edition
Print Edition
THERE'S definitely something masochistic when it comes to enjoying good food. For some inexplicable reason, we are simply hopeless at differentiating that fine line between pain and pleasure when it comes to satiating the taste buds.
Take the mighty durian for example. Conventional wisdom should be setting alarm bells off in our heads as soon as we take a whiff of it. Surely those ill-fated memories from childhood should remind us of the old adage ?? if it stinks, don't put it in your mouth. Somewhere along the line, however, this sage advice was cast into the wind and gourmands are all the more richer for it; despite its extremely off-putting pungency that would rival the typical Shanghai cabbie in winter, the durian ?? king of fruits, leader of men ?? is craved (and rightly so) for its rich, creamy flesh and erotic texture. The same can be said of smelly tofu or the runniest, more putrid cheeses.
How about the first human beings to dabble with fugu? How mad must they have been? What loon of a man decided it was a good idea to take the puffer fish, one of the world's most poisonous creatures, and ingest it? In fact, that brave pioneer, undeterred by the fish's prickly disposition, as short-lived as he must have been, was perhaps not quite so insane as his mates, who, despite witnessing their friend convulse and die a horrible death, chose to repeat the process.
Eventually someone managed to locate the thin slivers of flesh that did not result in death most horrid, and decided to share the delicacy with his kin. Those early dinner parties must have been a blast - "Yes Aunt Asami, this fish is extremely difficult to prepare and requires advanced knifing technique or you may die. Here you go ? oh, sorry."
Modernity may have inspired our ancestors with rational thought, but yet we still go "gaga" over food that brings more pain than our fragile human vessels are often prepared to take. If anything, the love of Sichuan cuisine demonstrates our willingness to dance on knife's edge when seeking gastronomical pleasure.
The aptly-named Spicy Joint chain certainly has local diners in rapture. For starters, the suffering comes even before being led to a table. The chain's popularity means each outlet is solidly booked for months on end and patrons are advised to show up super-early (around 5pm) or late (closer to half past eight).
The second option seemed more reasonable, even if the Jinling Road branch was still doing rip-roaring trade at this time. The place is massive, occupying the entire fourth floor, although turnover is relatively swift.
Decor is modern, tidy and unremarkable, while the din of the scores of diners (not to mention the fare) makes this an odd choice for an intimate tete-a-tete.
While the menu is printed entirely in Chinese, it is in the form of a glossy magazine meaning there are plenty of pictures to point at. Even then, however, it is easy to get confused by the sea of red.
The spicy boiled fish (price depends on type of fish; we plumped for Qingjiang fish at 48 yuan, about US$7 per 500 gram) was impressive in its restraint. While the dish still appears ferocious when served, it is not quite as oily as its counterparts, while the balance of herbs and spices was surprisingly subtle. It's nice when the Sichuan peppercorns leave your tongue tingling, less so when it goes numb.
A good friend and fellow scribe recommends the pork trotters (38 yuan) as her favorite local dish in the city, but it failed to leave such an impression on our party. It wasn't bad, but just under whelming. In comparison, the stewed bullfrog with towel gourd (48 yuan) was another stellar demonstration of balance, even if the Scoville units were turned up a notch here. The towel gourd was an inspired addition, bringing not just texture but cooling relief to the burning taste buds.
Most disappointing were the kung pow prawns (58 yuan), which somehow tasted somewhat artificial, as if to mock Westerners who regard the tangy sauce to be synonymous with the cuisine. The Chengdu fried egg soup was a humble yet surprising dish, with its saltiness again bringing balance to proceedings, while the griddle cooked baby cabbage (18 yuan) provided a nutritional equilibrium.
For such a rowdy place, Spicy Joint was surprisingly refined. It is honest, home-cooked fare, and those who loathe overwhelming spice and self-inflicted torture will be pleasantly surprised.
Address: 4/F, 500 Jinling Road
Reservation: 6470 2777
Take the mighty durian for example. Conventional wisdom should be setting alarm bells off in our heads as soon as we take a whiff of it. Surely those ill-fated memories from childhood should remind us of the old adage ?? if it stinks, don't put it in your mouth. Somewhere along the line, however, this sage advice was cast into the wind and gourmands are all the more richer for it; despite its extremely off-putting pungency that would rival the typical Shanghai cabbie in winter, the durian ?? king of fruits, leader of men ?? is craved (and rightly so) for its rich, creamy flesh and erotic texture. The same can be said of smelly tofu or the runniest, more putrid cheeses.
How about the first human beings to dabble with fugu? How mad must they have been? What loon of a man decided it was a good idea to take the puffer fish, one of the world's most poisonous creatures, and ingest it? In fact, that brave pioneer, undeterred by the fish's prickly disposition, as short-lived as he must have been, was perhaps not quite so insane as his mates, who, despite witnessing their friend convulse and die a horrible death, chose to repeat the process.
Eventually someone managed to locate the thin slivers of flesh that did not result in death most horrid, and decided to share the delicacy with his kin. Those early dinner parties must have been a blast - "Yes Aunt Asami, this fish is extremely difficult to prepare and requires advanced knifing technique or you may die. Here you go ? oh, sorry."
Modernity may have inspired our ancestors with rational thought, but yet we still go "gaga" over food that brings more pain than our fragile human vessels are often prepared to take. If anything, the love of Sichuan cuisine demonstrates our willingness to dance on knife's edge when seeking gastronomical pleasure.
The aptly-named Spicy Joint chain certainly has local diners in rapture. For starters, the suffering comes even before being led to a table. The chain's popularity means each outlet is solidly booked for months on end and patrons are advised to show up super-early (around 5pm) or late (closer to half past eight).
The second option seemed more reasonable, even if the Jinling Road branch was still doing rip-roaring trade at this time. The place is massive, occupying the entire fourth floor, although turnover is relatively swift.
Decor is modern, tidy and unremarkable, while the din of the scores of diners (not to mention the fare) makes this an odd choice for an intimate tete-a-tete.
While the menu is printed entirely in Chinese, it is in the form of a glossy magazine meaning there are plenty of pictures to point at. Even then, however, it is easy to get confused by the sea of red.
The spicy boiled fish (price depends on type of fish; we plumped for Qingjiang fish at 48 yuan, about US$7 per 500 gram) was impressive in its restraint. While the dish still appears ferocious when served, it is not quite as oily as its counterparts, while the balance of herbs and spices was surprisingly subtle. It's nice when the Sichuan peppercorns leave your tongue tingling, less so when it goes numb.
A good friend and fellow scribe recommends the pork trotters (38 yuan) as her favorite local dish in the city, but it failed to leave such an impression on our party. It wasn't bad, but just under whelming. In comparison, the stewed bullfrog with towel gourd (48 yuan) was another stellar demonstration of balance, even if the Scoville units were turned up a notch here. The towel gourd was an inspired addition, bringing not just texture but cooling relief to the burning taste buds.
Most disappointing were the kung pow prawns (58 yuan), which somehow tasted somewhat artificial, as if to mock Westerners who regard the tangy sauce to be synonymous with the cuisine. The Chengdu fried egg soup was a humble yet surprising dish, with its saltiness again bringing balance to proceedings, while the griddle cooked baby cabbage (18 yuan) provided a nutritional equilibrium.
For such a rowdy place, Spicy Joint was surprisingly refined. It is honest, home-cooked fare, and those who loathe overwhelming spice and self-inflicted torture will be pleasantly surprised.
Address: 4/F, 500 Jinling Road
Reservation: 6470 2777
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