In a few weeks I will celebrate two extraordinary years in Asia. I say Asia even though my base has been Hong Kong because so much of my internal shift has been powered by my travels in the region. Bangkok, Taipei, Yangshuo, Seoul, Shanghai, Beijing, Singapore – they’ve all left their indelible marks, the collection of which is far more rich than one that any single city can leave, even one as complex and protean as Hong Kong. But as extraordinary as my time has been, it has come at one very large expense.

Back in San Francisco – which, in hindsight and from across an ocean, seems rather small and provincial – I had a very rooted life. Most of my friends were graduates of the same university just half an hour away, for nearly ten years I had season tickets to the city’s celebrated symphony, and I knew the city – I mean, REALLY knew it. Friends sent me messages all the time asking for recommendations on restaurants, museums, sightseeing locations. It was my city. And until the day I snapped and decided to leave, there was no questioning the fact that it was my home.

It used to be easy to answer the question, where is your home? But now, the greatest challenge that has arisen in my time in Asia is in answering that question, because it is the issue that strikes me most deeply, not with a swift, sharp whack but with a dull, ineffable ache that won’t fade. I think most people yield to this ache and set roots down where they like the people well enough and the food works with their palette and they can make a good living. They might be bored, but at least they feel a sense of belonging. But for some people – and I’m beginning to think that I am one of them – it isn’t enough anymore. Like Frodo returning from his adventure across the known world, we find the Shire simply too small.

It is painful to realize, and even more painful to verbalize. I feel my grip loosening on good old San Francisco, the city where I too left my heart. And I have friends there, irreplaceable friends who are still the best people I have ever encountered. What’s more, to the south, in Los Angeles, I have family, and it pains me to think that I don’t get to see my four nieces grow up but twice a year. That they still embrace me with such vigorous affection seems like a small miracle. I yearn to be back with all of them, and numerous people have told me that home is where your loved ones are. But there is a stern force that compels me onward, and I know I can’t return – not yet. So where is my home?

Slowly it has been dawning on me that I am no longer happy with the idea of home as a single set of coordinates. I understand the need for geopolitical boundaries, but I can’t help being annoyed by them. Why must we place a single pin on the map to mark our homes? If I had it my way, I’d chalk my thumb and smear it across the map in a large arc, from Hong Kong to Taipei and up to Seoul, crossing over to San Francisco and down to Los Angeles and swiftly across to New York. It may be a dream, and very likely an impossible one. But when I imagine that smear I finally begin to feel it deep in my heart where there is a dull, ineffable ache: home.

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I have a short list of things I want to do before I die, and on that list is riding a helicopter. It’s been a dream since boyhood, when I used to be mesmerized by various aircrafts on GI Joe, especially the ones that lifted straight up rather than having to speed forward. Thanks to my friend KT, I was surprised with one of my very favorite experiences in Hong Kong. And what a generous surprise this was. It turns out you can take a 15-minute helicopter ride from the top of The Peninsula hotel. This may be the only time I’ve been so excited that I’m blogging about the experience the same day. I’m still so giddy I don’t know if my words are making any sense right now.

Once you board the vehicle, the first 30 seconds are discombobulating. It’s a weird sensation to lift up from a tower. There’s some wobbling, but I was so excited I didn’t mind. Once the ride settles, you coast, you float, and it’s difficult not to hum the E.T. theme song in your head. Then you notice… I mean, really notice the city. Even after two years in Hong Kong, the views you can get only from a small aircraft is breathtaking. Two truths are confirmed – even strengthened – by these aerial views. 1. Hong Kong is dense. Anyone can see this from the ground, but from the air you can see how tightly the buildings are packed and just how great their numbers. It’s so hard to grasp the scale that your mind prefers to believe you’re looking at a toy model. 2. Hong Kong is surprisingly green, and this fact you can easily forget as you pace about the paved paths below. From the air, the hills just beyond the building line is lush and green and expansive. My painting professor once commented on a rainy landscape I was painting. He told me to notice my dull green hill and correctly instructed that when the sky is gray the hills take on a more vibrant hue. Today, during my helicopter ride, the sky was partially overcast and indeed the hills seemed brilliantly green.

The helicopter takes between 15-20 minutes to circle Hong Kong island, but it felt more like two – two minutes of incredible giddiness as my boyhood dream became a reality. I’ll never again be so content with two feet on the ground.

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I was supposed to lay by the hotel pool or duck into an air-conditioned mall or maybe get another massage. This is my bubble in Bangkok. But a friend, JB, a former resident of Bangkok, suggested that I take a ferry up the Chao Phraya to the very last stop, a little area called Nonthaburi. This friend is full of surprises, packed with experience, fortified with an adventurous spirit, and I do not take her suggestions lightly. So I rode the Skytrain to the Saphan Thaksin station and walked down the steps, which led me almost directly to a ferry terminal. Avoid the tourist boats, she said, and take a ferry taxi with an orange or yellow flag. A few minutes later, I boarded and began a slow journey up the Chao Phraya.

Wat Arun along the Chao Phraya

Life happens along a river – at least on this one. This was my first time on a commuter river ferry. I’ve seen other waterways winding through major cities, but they seemed to be mostly abandoned except by industrial cargo ships or tour boats. But not the Chao Phraya. On a languid journey on this river, you sit next to locals going to work or visiting relatives, small children with inquisitive eyes and buddhist monks in stark but brilliant robes. You look out and see ancient temples and dilapidated homes. Families huddle as you approach a dock, and children jump exuberantly into the water as soon as you pass. And everywhere you see colors so vivid it’s as if you’re in a Kurosawa dream. Blue, red, yellow give way to cyan, magenta, and saffron. Even the drab, nameless color that usually sloshes against riverbanks is replaced by an otherworldly olive green. No wonder JB calls this her “hydrotherapy.” For 15 baht (US$0.50), you’re brought into a dream, a therapy session – whatever it is for you – and then you arrive in Nonthaburi.

Nonthaburi might easily be ignored or passed over as the homely stepsister of Bangkok. But if she’s homely and less pretty, I found her to be more genuine and honest, and in some ways more exciting than the flashy, confident city to the south. Just down the busy street stretching out from the ferry landing are vendors lining narrow sidewalks. Occasionally, the block opens up and there is a large huddle of vendors under canopies selling everything to keep a town ticking, from plastic slippers to jackfruit and fried fish. Like the colors of Thailand, the food here seems more vibrant, as if the Thai food you’ve eaten before is just a boring primary-color version of what is supposed to be neon and electric. Just smelling it makes you feel a little bit more alive, and it stays with you as you flow back down the river along which life happens.

Chao Phraya ferry taxi

An experienced worker on a Chao Phraya ferry taxi

Homes along the Chao Phraya

A miniature shrine

Chicken satay at Fumring Restaurant

Fried fish in Nonthanburi

Fried food vendor in Nonthanburi

Everything in Thailand is a little more vivid

Nonthanburi is a great place for relaxing in the shade

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A weekend trip to Bangkok is a temporary escape into fantasy. The services here that cater to tourists are so good and the prices so low that one can live lavishly at middle-class prices. Bangkok is where I’ve stayed at five star hotels and indulged in three hour massages. It’s where I can order off the menu without looking at the prices and take a cab when I want to avoid the sun, even if for a few blocks. It also offers sinful delights you can’t get anywhere else. I find it superficially insightful that the two Hangover movies take place in Las Vegas and in Bangkok, because in many ways these two cities share a kinship. There really are no other major cities in this vast world whose reputations are characterized by hedonism and vice, where one can easily imagine a labyrinth of shady alleys and rooms with flickering fluorescent lights in which people have so much fun that they can get into some serious testicle-crushing, tooth-missing trouble. These are Hangover cities.

As with any great city, Bangkok is a many-layered metropolis. But this layer (this bubble, really) – the one with marathon massages at minuscule prices, and lavish hotels where ten people greet you with the dulcet tones of the native tongue as if you’re a visiting diplomat, and pretty boys and girls (who might actually be boys) who flirt with you and more depending on what you’re willing to pay, and swanky bars atop buildings so tall that they lift you into the sky – is so bewitching that I struggle to ever leave it. This past weekend was my third visit to Bangkok (read about my second visit) and besides a single journey down the Chao Phraya, I didn’t manage to do much else than lead a life of hedonism and vice, if over-eating and over-relaxing are considered vices. While I’m in this bubble, I can pretend to be a trust fund baby with easy money to spend. And well, it feels good.

So here I am, feeling like a million dollars, strutting down the street alone to meet some friends at another bar on top of a skyscraper, when I happened to notice a woman on the sidewalk. She was disfigured – that was obvious even in the dark of night – and holding a boy in her arms who looked to be ten or eleven years old. I think what struck me was their silhouette: the boy lay limp across her folded legs and she supported his neck with one arm as her head stooped over his body. With flesh replacing marble stone, it was a more tender and poignant version of Michelangelo’s Pieta. When I walked closer, I noticed the woman was wiping away tears with the sleeve of her shirt. Having lived in San Francisco for over a decade, I’ve grown desensitized to people who use children and pets to get at your wallet by way of your heart. But on this night, these two were hidden in indigo shadows on a small street where few people passed after dusk, which led me to believe she wasn’t crying for attention or pity. The truth is that I can’t imagine what her life must be like every day, every minute I’m partying it up with friends or ordering double portions of mango and sticky rice. Was she lied to and left pregnant? Does she cry because she has started her son on the wrong foot? Has anyone talked to her kindly recently or given her the chance to be kind to them? Is she loved?

It would be naive of me to think that seeing one woman in a near hopeless situation gives me any real insight into Bangkok. But it was a single, sharp point that burst my bubble. And I like it when bubbles burst, because there is a bigger space, a bigger world beyond that is opened up to me. Will I come back and still indulge in those three hour massages? You bet. But I hope to develop a deeper relationship with Bangkok, layer by layer, over many more visits.

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Ah coffee. Alluring, complex, divine. I call it the urine of the gods – and I drink it happily.

I was spoiled in San Francisco, where the gods’ bladders issued forth the finest coffee anywhere in warm, strong, healthy streams. Coffeeshops like Blue Bottle, Ritual, Four Barrel, and Sight Glass represent the cutting edge of what is sometimes called Third Wave coffee. They introduced the food-obsessed population of San Francisco to single-origin beans, micro-roasting (with roast dates displayed on every batch), and a variety of brew methods that were newly invented or long-forgotten. There is a mix of art and science, and a good measure of marketing magic too to create an air of mystery. Water temperature, weight of beans, and brew time are all carefully measured. They talk about extraction and yield, use dazzling contraptions that look like chemistry sets, and often roast the beans in the back so you can see how fresh the beans are. I always ordered my coffee hand-dripped in a Hario V60 or siphoned because they produce the cleanest cups of coffee, allowing one to detect subtle tones in the aroma and flavor. When the beans are roasted correctly, freshly ground just before serving, and properly brewed, one can taste – depending on the beans – blueberries, honey, thyme, white peach, corn flakes, maple. This was my coffee life back in San Francisco.

Then I moved to Hong Kong, and the gods’ bladders ran dry. Here, most places seem to serve espresso based drinks (which I find too brutal and overpowering) or french pressed coffee (which produces a very muddy, cloudy mouthfeel) using old, over-roasted beans. Occasionally, my friend B personally roasts coffee beans and ships them to me, giving me temporary relief.  I treasure these beans and I take them and my portable coffee making kit – a Hario V60, several paper cone filters, a small hand grinder –  with me when I travel, except to Seoul, where the Third Wave of coffee has penetrated the city more pervasively than even in San Francisco. The trend-obsessed Korean culture has resulted in at least one good thing. But back in Hong Kong, desperate for hits of caffeine, I held my nose and drank the local brew when B’s beans ran out. There was talk about a few local coffeeshops that served good coffee, but I found them lacking. Then in early 2012 Rabbithole Coffee opened.

Rabbithole is a small coffeeshop with a single narrow table in the center. Along the two long walls are multiple espresso machines of various types and equipment for at least several different brewing methods. Given the ratio of work space to customer space, one might immediately sense that they take coffee making quite seriously. And they do. Ask for a cup of hand-dripped coffee and you will see them measure out beans (15 grams), wait until the boiling water cools to their preferred temperature (85 degrees), and pour the water over the filter into a cup on a digital scale to make sure they’ve produced exactly 200 grams of coffee. They will vary the measurements based on the beans. They also siphon, ice drip, and create a list of espresso-based drinks too. I don’t always agree with all their decisions – I prefer a finer grind and slightly higher temperatures for my hand-drip - but their coffee is the best I’ve found in Hong Kong.

But what really sets Rabbithole apart – and this, though not sufficient alone, is as important as the coffee itself – is their welcoming spirit. The staff, led by Mike, the gregarious Chinese-Australian owner, includes fresh-faced Taco and otherworldly Alice (seriously, she might be from another planet) who make sure you don’t feel intimidated by all the gadgets and the heady culture often associated with Third Wave coffee. They will walk you through each brewing method, demonstrate every espresso machine (all of which are on sale), and invite you to sample various cups of coffee even though you ordered just one. Given that it’s hard to find a seat at the table during most times of the day, this philosophy seems to have paid off. But this isn’t a problem for me since I prefer sitting at the balcony which has a wonderful view of the escalator. I often pull up a chair right to the edge and pose with coffee in hand for the tourists. Sometimes I wink at them. Sometimes I make a phone gesture with my hand to my ear, signaling them to call me. Once in a while, they’ll respond with a phone gesture of their own, signaling that yes they will call. I finally have my coffee life back.

www.rabbitholecoffee.com

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Just a 20-minute subway ride away from Taipei is a small town called Beitou, which is famous for its geothermal hotsprings. And in the town of Beitou is a magical place called Villa 32, and if ever there was a place I’ve visited that reminded me of Rivendell in our world, this is it. I was introduced to it a couple of months ago thanks to a very good friend, a Taiwanese American living in Hong Kong who makes frequent trips to Taipei to escape his grueling work schedule. Villa 32, he told me with a hushed tone as if to let me in on a secret, is his special place. Almost immediately after I arrived, it became mine as well. And now, you know about it too. The secret’s out, S. Sorry.

Villa 32 is a former private home of what must have been a very wealthy person. The facility includes five guest rooms, a large restaurant, and a bathhouse. We didn’t stay in their rooms because we wanted nothing more than a day trip –  lunch and a trip to their bathhouse –  and we were lucky to come at a season when they offered a special black truffle menu. Truth be told, I wouldn’t recommend Villa 32 just for the restaurant: the service is impeccable and the food is decent, but it’s expensive and not worth a special trip out of Taipei. The special insider tip, however, is that if you dine at the restaurant, they offer a special bundled package that includes a four-hour pass to their bathhouse which practically pays for most of the meal. And this I would strongly recommend. If you’re American, you want to get over your public-nudity-shyness quickly and do this. Trust me.

There are two bathhouses – his and hers – each with multiple pools that are filled with local spring water. There are also spacious lounges, a dark nap room, and a tatami room where you can look at the window and have a mind-cleansing zen moment. The facilities are perched over the natural hotspring that makes Beitou famous, offering you the best views in town. After a long dunk in one of the hot pools, you can wrap yourself in a towel and sit on the porch and look out as the mists of Beitou float and swirl across the hilly landscape. When S and I went, it drizzled all afternoon, adding an extra ethereal element to the scene. Little touches of luxury is evident in the quality of the towels, the toiletries, and the endless supply of Fiji bottled water. And because they limit the number of visitors at any given time, you can easily escape into one of the rooms – or even in a pool – and find yourself completely alone, to do absolutely nothing, which is perhaps the biggest luxury of all.

www.villa32.com

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“You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one…. You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you–the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”

“What must I do, to tame you?” asked the little prince.
“You must be very patient,” replied the fox.

– The Little Prince

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At first I think it’s a bad connection. Hello, I keep repeating in Korean. Then some seconds later I realize that she’s crying silently. She knows it’s me on the line. I’m the only one whose calls to her appear as Unknown Number. Mom, why are you crying? I ask in the gentlest tone I can muster. No answer, only the staccato breathing of someone trying to choke her tears. It has been a long time since I’ve heard my mom cry on the phone; perhaps not since my dad passed away a few months before I arrived in Asia almost two years ago. Rarely does she expose her weakness like this. When she does, my earth cracks. Mom, why are you crying?

After a minute, she brushes off my question and asks if I am okay, if I am eating well, and if I am not sick. A lot of people are bothered by this kind of mothering, but I find it soothing and familiar. Her voice stumbles and wavers until she finds her mother’s pitch again. She asks if I am going to be in Asia much longer. Yes, I say, I feel comfortable here in a way I didn’t in America. It isn’t what she wants to hear. I say it because it’s true, and I think that she knows it’s true because she gives no resistance. But I can feel her silent ache. There are many good reasons for me to be in Asia, which is why I am still here. The scale, however, is only barely tipped in its favor. On the other side, there is a stack of reasons why I should go back to America. And this… this is the heaviest one of all.

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Once in a great while I come across a dish that I find so utterly delicious that it produces a tectonic shift in my culinary landscape. I become obsessed with it and I can’t help myself from evangelizing. I’ve made this list of seven wonders not as an authoritative list – which would be impossible, really – but as a tongue-in-cheek way of promoting foods that have in some way changed my life with the aim that the four or five people who actually read my blog (yes, you few… you happy few) might be inspired to try them too. I have been growing this list over the past several years, constantly weighing potential entrants against the ones that were securely in place. In Shanghai, I finally encountered something that completed my list of seven. Hence, this post.

First, a caveat: This list is pulled from my world, not yours. I haven’t been to Paris or Penang, so this is assembled from the world that is known to me. It is biased in favor of San Francisco where I spent most of my adulthood as well as Asia where I have spent the bulk of the past two years and where long-standing culinary traditions have made poetic use of prosaic ingredients (see note on criteria below). This is also a very personal list, as all such lists must be. So feel free to disagree. Feel free to roll your eyes. Then make your own damn list from your own world. (And actually, I’d like to see that list – I bet I’ll learn something from it.)

Next, a note on the criteria: It’s easy to wow diners with expensive ingredients – white truffles from Alba, osetra caviar from the Caspian Sea, wagyu from Kobe. But it takes a special ingenuity to elevate common ingredients – pork, flour, tomato – to something transcendent. This is, perhaps, why my list leans heavily towards Asia, where simple constructions have endured and improved with countless iterations spanning many generations. All but one entrant use nothing more than humble ingredients, which makes these wonders that much more wonderful. I also wanted to attach each food with a specific restaurant that provides a singularly outstanding version. So rather than saying xiao long bao (soup dumpling) in the generic sense, I link it to a particular version from a specific restaurant  (in this case, Din Tai Fung). There are countless restaurants that serve bad soba or pizza, and I didn’t want that fact obstructing the near perfect versions that illuminate their respective categories.

Finally, the list, in no particular order:

1. Country loaf bread, Tartine. (San Francisco, CA, USA) Bread – does it get any more basic than that? This loaf from Tartine is pure perfection. It has a subtly smoky crust that cracks and crunches around a soft elastic interior that’s reminiscent of naan or roti. I can make a meal out of a few slices and some good cold butter. My French friends tell me that the bread is better in Paris. But of course they would – they’re French.

2. Soba, Zen. (Hakuba, Nagano, Japan) It’s difficult to explain how transcendent fresh, hand-cut soba can be to someone who has never tried it. There’s a reason why it’s so revered in Japan and why master chefs spend years learning how to mix, knead, and slice these noodles. Dip a few strands of cold soba in tsuyu (a dipping sauce made from dashi, mirin, and soy sauce, mixed with either grated daikon or wasabi) and slurp it up noisily to mix it with air as it goes up into your mouth. You might hear a haiku in the breathy voice of an angel.

3. Seolleongtang, Inamjang. (Seoul, South Korea) I’ve written about this soup before. If I have it my way, it will be my last meal in this world. Seolleongtang is a hearty but simple soup made by boiling beef bones and cartilage for many hours until the broth turns milky white. All you need to eat it is some rice, a bit of sea salt, a twist of a pepper mill, and a heaping scoop of fresh cut scallions. Paired with good tart kimchi, it’ll satisfy you like you’ve never been satisfied before. Ever.

4. Unagi nigiri sushi, Sushi Yasuda. (New York City, NY, USA) In light of my criteria, it might seem like cheating to put sushi on this list, but I’m not talking about slices of otoro. I’m talking about a rather common meat, at least in Japan: unagi. It usually comes pre-cooked in vacuum sealed plastic bags but at Sushi Yasuda, they grill it fresh, giving it a buttery density that’s truly ethereal. Sushi Yasuda is famous for their sushi rice too, which is perfectly seasoned and served slightly warmer than room temperature. This is my favorite single piece of sushi, and that’s saying a lot for a guy who doesn’t actually like eel.

5. Fried soup dumplings, Yang’s. (Shanghai, China) I love dumplings. And this one is a supreme example of how good a dumpling can be. Fried-steamed in large iron pans, they’re crunchy on one side and soft on the other. Take a bite of this hefty hunk of heaven and the meaty soup gushes out all over your face, your clothes, the sidewalk… everywhere. But you won’t care. You’ll just keep going. Great when doused with Chinese vinegar.

6. Truffle xiao long bao, Din Tai Fung. (Taipei, Taiwan) Soup dumplings are so good that two variants are on this list. Din Tai Fung is the revered Taiwanese chain that serves the arguably best classic xiao long bao on the planet. But their truffle xiao long bao is on an entirely different plane. The pairing of minced pork and truffles is a divine combination of earthiness. If love and peace and happiness were manifested into a morsel, this might be it.

7. Margherita pizza, Delfina Pizzeria. (San Francisco, CA, USA) I love deep dish, I love NY style, I love Neopolitan, I even love Pizza Hut. I love pizza. But this… this is my favorite, hands down. It’s the purest trifecta: bubbly, slightly charred, paper thin crust + tangy tomato sauce + mozzarella discs. And maybe a dash of olive oil and a fresh basil leaf to add a bit of zip to it. I’m sure everyone – especially if you’re American – will have strong feelings about your own favorite. But this is mine.

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Of all the countries I’ve been to in Asia, the one that has been most startlingly different has been China. It might be because I first entered it through the South: Yangshuo near Guilin. Although it’s one of the largest tourist destinations in China the rural landscape and poverty make it feel very otherworldly to a former San Francisco yuppie who indulged in gourmet ice cream and read Shakespeare in a manicured park. Then there was Guangzhou, the third largest city in China, but despite its economic and demographic heft it lacks an international air: a row of barbecued dog vendors offset the one Starbucks I visited. But even to the Northeast: Beijing, the seat of political and cultural power, seemed so much an undiluted expression of the ruling body’s vision that it too seemed oppressively foreign.

At long last I finally made my way to Shanghai. Because I’ve picked up the habit – for better or for worse – of visiting new places with minimal research (instead, relying on someone familiar with the place to guide me), I had only vague expectations. I knew the city would be large and very commercial and I expected a lot of spitting from the locals. Those expectations were met. I also expected to have very good food, all of it Chinese. So when my friend insisted that we go to his favorite restaurant and informed me that it served Western cuisine, I had silent doubts. My dinner at Alchemist, however, turned out to be one of the best meals I’ve had in China. What’s more, the restaurant was so good that even if it were located in the fully gentrified Mission District of San Francisco it would still fall into a shortlist of my favorite restaurants and they would have to put up with that obnoxiously giddy Korean American sitting alone at the counter as a regular fixture. This isn’t good American food by Chinese standards. It’s good by any standard.

Alchemist is an American-style restaurant serving classic dishes such as grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup and fried chicken plus a smattering of European orphans like pasta. They claim to employ molecular gastronomy methods but it was hardly noticeable in what seemed to be refined versions of familiar fare. The first dish we ate was a sort of egg sandwich: an egg yolk beautifully cooked sous vide (there you go) and placed on a crisp fluffy toasted brioche square; a study in texture. Then came the rigatoni. I have to admit that my mind’s eyes rolled when my host ordered it. Fifteen minutes later I devoured most of it. It was a standard rigatoni plate with some sausage and a cream sauce – a textbook case, but one that was so perfectly executed that it really should be showcased in a textbook. Next was one of the best grilled cheese sandwiches I have ever had, and if I knew what made one version of a spartanly simple dish better than another I might be able to tell you what made this one a spectacular standout. But I don’t and I can’t. Finally the fried chicken came: a mound of battered and fried chicken meat tossed with fried sweet potatoes and shards of what seemed to resemble peanut brittle as if to pay homage to Chinese dishes that drench fried meat dishes with sweet sauces. And it worked… or at least I think it did. I was so full by then that I was a bit numb.

The stage for the food is also whimsically American in spirit. Random knick knacks such as accordions, selected for their kitschy aesthetics as if they were plucked from garage sales in Cleveland, are tastefully organized in a dimly lit room that might be called New England Vintage if I knew anything about interior design. A rebellious chandelier that flaunts its raw industrial beauty hangs in one room like a massive spider. This isn’t the kind of restaurant to court Michelin stars but to carry a “I’m too cool to care” attitude that makes it alluring for people with restaurant fatigue. There are restaurants just like it in maverick culinary epicenters scattered across America  - in Portland, in San Francisco, in Chicago, in Austin – but few that I’ve been to have been as good as this. Here in Shanghai, where everything was supposed to be different.

(Alchemist is also known for their cocktails, but I couldn’t tell since I don’t really drink liquor. But those who do have reassured me that yes indeed the drinks are good.)

Alchemist
Sinan Mansions, Block 32-45 Sinan Lu
Shanghai, China
+86 21 6426 0660

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