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Back to Shanghai River Restaurant

Tuesday, July 31, 2012 in Canada, Richmond | 1 comment

The dining room at Shanghai River Restaurant in Richmond. Photos by David Lansing.

Maybe you remember that the night I arrived in Vancouver, the first thing I did was go to the Shanghai River Restaurant where I met The Girl in the Purple Stilettos (Mijune Pak) and sampled their shrimp dumplings. I said I’d be back and last night I returned. Sadly, Mijune couldn’t join me as she had other plans.

Two things about Shanghai River: It’s always crowded and the vast majority of diners come in large groups. Like eight or ten people—or more. So if you go as just a couple, it may take awhile to get seated. And if you go alone, like I did, you’re going to end up in one of the two booths they’ve squeezed into the back next to the fish tanks.

Oh, well. What are you going to do?

Winston Lai

My waiter, Winston Lai, with his Justin Bieber haircut.

My waiter, Winston, looked like a Chinese version of Justin Bieber. Very boyish and sweet looking with that wave of hair falling across his face. And it was dyed kind of a rusty color, which seems to be very trendy with Asians right now. I think of it as a Tokyo look but I don’t really know where it came from.

I didn’t want to mess with the menu. I told Winston I wanted him to bring me whatever he thought was really good and I should try. This seemed to paralyze Winston for a moment. I don’t think waiters at Shanghai River are used to people coming in and telling them to bring them whatever they think is good.

So Winston says maybe I should start with the steamed pork buns which, he explained aren’t really like steamed pork buns—more like Shanghai soup dumplings, xiao long bao. “They explode in your mouth,” he said.

That sounded perfect. And he was right; there were eight of them and I wolved them down in minutes while sucking on a cold Tsingtao.

For my next dish, Winston was a bit perplexed. He said the best soup on the menu was the steamed chicken soup with wontons, “But the smallest order is for like six people and probably has a whole chicken in it.”

That sounded a bit much. So he opted for the sweet and sour soup. Which sounds kind of ordinary, but this was anything but. This was one of those dishes you’d never make at home, mostly because it would take you a week to do it. You could tell that just from tasting the broth, which was so rich that it could probably sustain an invading army marching across Siberia in winter.

Sweet & sour soup, Shanghai River Restaurant

Sweet & sour soup at Shanghai River Restaurant.

Get past the broth and there was shredded chicken, circles of green onions, small plump shrimp, shredded pork, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, and chiles. I mean, I could have just had a bowl of this soup and a Tsingtao and I would have been very, very happy.

But you don’t come to Shanghai River and just eat soup. So next there were the Szechuan-style prawns—plump, juicy, and tasting of the sea. Also spicy, which I like.

“What do you think?” asked Winston.

I told him I thought I needed another Tsingtao. While he poured it, he told me that his family is from Hong Kong and he came here when he was eight, but “my English isn’t very good because I hang around too much with just Chinese people.”

I told him his English was fine. And the dishes he’d brought me were superb. And they were.
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A Sikh in the vineyards of Lulu

Monday, July 30, 2012 in Canada, Richmond | 2 comments

Sikh at Lulu Island Winery

A Sikh pruning vines at Lulu Island Winery in Richmond. Photo by David Lansing.

Look at this photo. Where are we?

We’re at a winery in Richmond, British Columbia. And out in the vineyard are half a dozen Sikhs pruning grape vines. I told you on Saturday that Laura and I had gone down Richmond’s “Highway to Heaven” where, before we stopped in at a Buddhist Temple, we saw, all side by side, a mosque and a synagogue and several temples, including a Sikh one.

Well, evidently the Sikhs head down the highway to work at Lulu Island Winery. I love that! Although I’m not sure if there’s a bit of a conflict there since Sikhs aren’t supposed to use alcohol or drugs. But maybe it’s okay to help make the alcohol—just as long as you don’t sample it. If there are any Sikhs out there reading this please let me know because, frankly, I’m kind of clueless about Sikhs. All I really know about them is that they wear turbans, aren’t supposed to cut their hair, and they make love to Juliette Binoche (at least in The English Patient).

I should know more. Particularly since there are over 30 million Sikhs world-wide and they’re the fifth-largest organized religion in the world (and one of the most steadily growing—Wikipedia).

Anyway, Laura and I were touring the Lulu Island Winery with Polly and I saw these Sikhs out in the vineyard and I just had to ask her about them. She says they only hire Sikhs to work the vines. “They are very hard workers. I mean, it’s hot out there. I wouldn’t last 30 minutes. But they work out in the vineyard all day long and never complain. They’re amazing.”

So now I know one more thing about them: They’re good workers.

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The Joker Buddha

Saturday, July 28, 2012 in Canada, Richmond

Maitreya, the Laughing Buddha, at the Kuan Yin Buddhist Temple in Richmond. Photo by David Lansing.

Laura and I pass by stands selling fresh berries and corn and other produce and then all of a sudden in the middle of this farmland there’s a Sunni mosque and then a temple for Sikhs followed by a Krishna center, Jewish synagogue, and several churches. We are on the Highway to Heaven, on our way to the Kuan Yin Temple, one of the most authentic Chinese Buddhist temples in North America.

We walk through the temple’s classical gardens where lotus flowers float in a jade-colored pond surrounded by elegant bonsai trees, all meant to recreate Deer Park where the Buddha Sakyamuni delivered the first sermon to his five disciples thousands of years ago.

And there in a courtyard shaded by fragrant cedar trees is my old friend the Laughing Buddha. Except this Laughing Buddha, unlike the one I wrote about on Tuesday that I saw in the Ten Fu tea shop in the Aberdeen Centre, is a little creepy looking. His white face and lipsticked lips make him look like Heath Ledger’s The Joker from the second Batman movie. Which is too bad. Because the Laughing Buddha is supposed to be a good guy. They say that he will be reborn after the degeneration of times and will succeed Gautama Buddha and help people realize their goodness and compassion. But I don’t know. I’m not feeling that way about this particular Joker Buddha.

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Yes, Wu Fung Dessert has no dessert

Thursday, July 26, 2012 in Canada, Richmond

Wu Fung Dessert in the Aberdeen Centre, Richmond BC. Photo by David Lansing.

Here’s what I’ve learned about Mijune: If she suggests you go somewhere to eat, just go. Even if it doesn’t sound like your thing (think chicken feet or frappé).

Today she says, “I have a craving for Wu Fung.”

“What’s Wu Fung?” I ask.

“Deep-fried chicken wings.”

Okay, again: I don’t do chicken wings and I never do deep-fried fast-food. “Chicken wings?” I say. “Seriously?”

Mijune doesn’t even listen to me anymore. Just as well.

But before we bite into our chicken wings, I have a question to ask: What is it with Asian places giving fanciful names to eateries that have nothing to do with what they serve?

For instance: Yesterday Mijune and I were walking around getting all hot and thirsty so we stopped at a place called the Cherry Juice Company. And guess what? They don’t serve cherry juice.

Wu Fung, as you can see from the picture, is actually called Wu Fung Dessert. Would it shock you to discover they don’t sell any desserts (unless you consider soy sauce hard-boiled eggs to be a dessert)?

Somebody please write and tell me why they do this.

Anyway, back to Wu Fung. Once again, Mijune was right. These puppies are meaty and flavorful, the crust crisp but also kind of puffy, sort of like a fish & chips batter, with a slight taste of ginger in it. A little oily (get them out of the Styrofoam container they’re served in as soon as possible) but positively delectable. They reminded me of some Hong Kong street food I had once.

Oh, and get the lemon tea. It’s just as good as the chicken wings and the perfect accompaniment.

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Bliss in the form of a Frappé

Wednesday, July 25, 2012 in Canada, Richmond | 2 comments

Mijune shoots our frappe bliss before we devour it. Photo by David Lansing.

I don’t do dessert. I just don’t. So when Mijune suggested that after we finished our chicken feet at Fisherman’s Terrace we head up to the food court in the Abderdeen Centre for some Taiwanese-style shaved ice, I told her to go on ahead.

“You should try it.”

“First of all, I can’t eat another thing. And secondly, the last thing I want right now is shaved ice. I hate shaved ice.”

“It’s not really shaved ice,” she said, grabbing my arm and dragging me towards the escalator. “It’s frappé.”

Whoopy do.

I haven’t known Mijune long but obviously what Mijune wants, Mijune gets. She was going to drag me kicking and screaming like a two-year-old to the food court.

So the Taiwanese-style shaved ice place is called Frappé Bliss. Mijune says in Taiwan it’s called xue hua bing, which means “snowflake ice.”

“But it’s not really ice,” she says as she barks out instructions to some kid behind the counter for what she wants. “It’s actually frozen milk.”

Like that makes it sound any better.

Anyway, Mijune orders a big bowl of green tea frappe with fresh mango, kiwi, and strawberry and a scoop of ice cream on the top. Then, after we get it, she whips out her cell phone and starts taking photos. While the whole thing melts. Which is just fine with me since I’m not going to have any of it anyway. Finally, she dips a plastic spoon in to the bowl and takes a tiny little bite.

“Oh-my-god,” she murmurs. She looks up at me but I ignore her. She plays with the spoon in her mouth, as if she’s licking off every last drop. “Oh, David,” she moans. People are looking at her. It’s like that scene in the diner in When Harry Met Sally—she’s having an orgasm at the Aberdeen food court.

“Fine,” I say, grabbing a spoon. “I’ll take a bite. Just stop moaning.”

The frappé is ethereal. Remember when you were a kid and the first snow of winter would fall and you’d go outside and lift your head up to the sky and catch a single solitary light-as-air snowflake on your tongue and it would instantaneously melt and make you giggle?

That’s what this dessert tastes like. Silky, fluffy, feathery snow. With flavor.

“Stop eating all the frappé,” I tell Mijune, pushing her plastic spoon out of the way. She smiles. “Should I get another?”

“If you want any you should,” I tell her.

And off she goes to Frappé Bliss. While I close my eyes and spoon into my mouth each delightful bite of the green tea-flavored feathery frozen milk delight.

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