Lee How Fook |
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219 N. 11th Street (215) 925-7266
In the mid-fifties, two Chinese restaurants created blocklong lines: South China on 9th Street near Vine and Shanghai Garden on Race at 919. The queues were populated by "real eaters," those whose bellies had stretch marks actually visible through the bloated transparency of thin cotton shirts, blouses, pants or skirts. It was not the custom to travel to Chinatown to dine; rather to stuff one's self silly, then rest, and start eating anew. My father ordered for the four of us, "Won-Ton Soup for six, please, extra noodles; eight shrimp egg rolls, extra mustard; two chicken chow mein; four orders of spareribs; three shrimp-in-lobster sauce, a pork fried rice and two white rices; one pepper steak."
No sooner did our waiter disappear through red vinyl doors into a bustling kitchen, than he was out again rolling a huge silver butler full of soup tureens, domed platters, glass teapots, bowls, dishes, silverware, cellophane packets of soy, mustard and, of course, a plethora of two-gallon pitchers of ice water. When all were completely stuffed, my mother taught us the true meaning of charity:
It seemed incomprehensible, viewing my little sister across the table, how she could even open her mouth. She'd fallen into a stuporous MSG coma after having wantonly devoured humongous piles of fried rolls, noodles, and ribs. Spatterings of rice dribbled from her mouth. Nevertheless, Mom was able to force my sister’s lips open involuntarily by placing a thumb and index finger on either side of the child's cheeks, and pressing. It was not thereafter difficult to spoon feed her the speckled vanilla ice cream I'd eventually ordered to be "charitable." On the ride home, lactic, gaseous explosions emanated from my sister's biliously bulging body, punctuating the radio airwave’s banter of Bert Parks on "Name That Tune," and making cacophony of Hal March's Sixty-Four ($64) Dollar questions. Near home, Kate Smith choked while attempting to sing God Bless America.
Plan an early arrival; bring your own beer or wine. Fabulous food is served from soup to final fortune cookie, casually and purposefully. Chef Shing Chung and his wife Doris created Cantonese dishes beyond compare, until they gradually retired and slowly left the establishment to their daughter Sieu and her husband Andrew. Not a hemidemisemiquaver was missed. New head chef Bo Mai still prepares each meal from scratch, and fanatically fresh. Doris Chung used to say, “So Sieu me!”
Moreover, whole fish are prepared in Fook’s kitchen, Mandarin style, skin crisped and sauced, then steamed to a pearly white, fish-eyes ungleaming. Pick at the table-filleted striped bass or flounder leisurely and luxuriously, as no one rushes.
YU NO HOO |
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Copyright 2007 Richard Max Bockol, Esq. | Back |