Chinese
Myers + Chang in Boston – Dim Sum Review
Myers + Chang in Boston is not a Chinese restaurant.
Yet I frequently hear it compared to one. Chinese food in the US, as Jennifer 8. Lee would say, is the true American cuisine. It has wooed the stomach of millions. Its takeout vessels have become iconic of American culture itself. It is the gateway cuisine to other Asian foods. Myers + Chang (not Meyer’s and Chang) is the post-gateway restaurant.
Asian food has been pigeonholed mostly as… efficient. There are grease-cheap Chinese food joints that seem minted from a humorless factory line. The only ambience in these outposts is the sparkle of a sputtering neon sign. Then there are the cramped Chinatown places that Chowhound loves, serving regional specialties and packing serious heat.
But as in any major market, there’s room for niche players. Myers + Chang in Boston has angled itself as a pan-Asian restaurant with all the trappings of a hip bistro. It’s menu is self-aware, even preciously trendy (Asian chicken and waffles, anyone?). There are gluten-free options. It has the benefit of nimbleness without the issue of catering to the lowest common denominator.
Entrees are around $11-17. The waiters don’t wear those awful black vests. Food arrives on nice plates. My coke had a pink twisty straw and a lime wedge. There’s an open kitchen, a crimson dragon print on the windows, and airy, uncluttered seating. You could take a date here, not spend a ton, but not look cheap.
Some people might complain you can get more “authentic” food for less money in Chinatown.
I would say they’re missing the point. Even though I love the divey food experience, sometimes you just want the rough edges sanded off your Saturday dim sum brunch, you know? I appreciate atmosphere. Sometimes you have to fight for your food in a Chinese restaurant and that makes me cry a little inside. It reminds me too much of being in China.
Plus, those places don’t make things like fried egg banh mi! Myers + Chang does. (I took these photos with my Canon Rebel XS, for those interested in such things.)
I tried a few dishes off their weekend dim sum menu.
Why Chinese Restaurateurs Get Stuck Selling Cheap
Egg drop soup, courtesy of Serious Eats’ Robyn Lee
I got an interesting comment on my post about why Chinese restaurants are so cheap about a month ago. (And my friend Sam sent in an excellent post about the culinary fundamentals that work against Chinese chefs.) The reader was Jack Neefus, a Baltimore resident who works in finance and dabbles in cooking and travel. He’s been to China few times, including my dad’s hometown of Heilong Jiang.
I asked if I could repost his comment, so he took an extra step beyond to rewrite it into a thoughtful essay. For space purposes, I’ll recap the beginning and excerpt my favorite parts. (I’m so high on my editorial power. You have no idea.)
Jack makes an economically-driven argument for Chinese restaurant owners’ motives. Chinese restaurants, he contends, are frequently owned by immigrants who view their businesses as a relatively stable form of income, compared to the restaurateur driven by love of cuisine and hospitality.
In his writeup, oversupply and price competition are major issues. One interesting point he raises is that American Chinese food tends to favor cheap, bulky vegetables that don’t require a lot of cleaning or cooking, and maintain volume. Ex. broccoli and onion. He also touches on the commodification of Chinese food, and how it’s now viewed as another fast food category with a factory-issued menu.
I found that his personal experiences (let’s call them abbreviated case studies) added the most value to his argument. He draws on his connections in China as well as Baltimore to make some pretty provocative statements.
Jack also breaks down the variety of niche, higher-priced Chinese foods, ranging from jacking up the decor to regional dish specialization.
If you’re nerdy about food (as I am), this is a fun read. I don’t necessarily agree with all of his logic or assertions, but that’s part of the fun.
Please chime in with your own experiences, thoughts, or rebuttals.
M&T Restaurant in Flushing, NY: a Tsingtao in Qingdao
While in Beijing, I briefly fantasized about taking the train to Qingdao. I knew little about the area, except that it is the home of the eponymous TsingTao beer. (Same name, different romanization system.) There was a beer festival going on, and for some reason, I imagined a malt-hued scene of splendor: TsingTao-branded palaces, wheat-colored fountains, doe-eyed promo models.
A tall, cold one. (all photos by Sam)
I never made it onto the train, opting for lazy afternoons of shopping in the tourist trap of Beijing’s Ya Xiu market. I dropped thousands of RMB thanks to ineffectual bargaining while my culture-shocked nerves were worn down to an irritable jelly. Thankfully, my second chance at travel — a stateside jaunt to Qingdao in the form of a meal at M&T in Flushing — was more pleasant.
My fellow food-loving friend Sam (who wrote about Chinese food and photographed a Seattle food tour) did his Flushing research, so we set off on a heatstroked Sunday to M&T (44-09 Kissena Blvd, (718) 539-4100) for some good eats. As we trekked past Main Street – way past Main Street – my strappy platform espadrilles cut into the lumps of battered flesh called feet.
I wished I were a 5 year old in a carseat. “Are we there yet?” I asked.
“Almost!” Sam replied, in his perpetually cheery kind of way.
We were greeted by the friendly proprietoress who, impressed by Sam’s ability to speak fluent Chinese (no one is ever impressed by my Chinese), helpfully suggested “比较传统青岛菜” (rather traditional Qingdao dishes).
Sam’s awesome pics of our meal after the jump.
All Chinese [parties] look alike
Chinese gatherings are all alike; every other party is unique in its own way. Chinese parties, by and large, contain several essential elements: a gut-busting family-style meal, dishes with ingredients cut into small pieces, heart-wrenchingly awful karaoke (because this is the socially acceptable way to display emotion), rice liquor and/or Chinese beer, possibly crappy wine. And Chinese people. These are not optional.
growing up at the table
At the advanced age of 21, I finally seemed to have graduated to the Big Kids tables at these kinds of gatherings. Someone offered me alcohol, but I realized I wanted no part of tipsy festivities. “Your Chinese is superb,” another guest complimented me after I said the equivalent of, “I interned in Shanghai this summer.” I accepted the compliment ungraciously.
red-cooked pork, lined with a sunburst of halved hardboild eggs.
After munching through red-cooked pork and and thousand year old eggs, I realized the real party was where I could speak my unabashed dialect of sarcastic English. I shifted to the kitchen, where the high schoolers were.
A ton of homemade Chinese food porn after the jump.
Getting fat again
So I use “fat” in a tongue-in-cheek way. But I definitely spent the last few weeks watching what I ate, which meant no crazy banquet dinners, dinners of scrambled egg whites and vegetables, and the occasional helping of cheese dip, heaped high with guilt.
As a result, my stomach became a cast iron tank. My collarbone and ribcage took greater prominence. When I lay down, I marveled at how my skin stretched over my gently jutting hipbones. It felt like a lesson in skeletal anatomy.
So on my first day back on Planet Girl, I felt totally free to go on a carb-and-calorie rampage. I was going to eat EVERYTHING and ANYTHING I could possibly ever want to eat. I was going to ignore stomach pains. I was going to consume whatever was put in front of me, especially high in simple starches, sugar, and fats. I was going to try to undo whatever I had done to myself.
The night before, I’d made good work of a ginger-and-scallion lobster dish, a beef/pepper/pineapple stirfry, and a salt and pepper fried squid at Peach Farm in Chinatown. The verdict: the cooking was a bit rushed, and the quality suffered as a result. My dad commented on how slapdash the dishes seemed to be put together, although the beef stirfry was meltingly tender and delicious. Then I topped it off with a half a red bean bun as I stalked around on my 5 inch clear heels, bronzer still caked on my stomach, legs, and arms.