knock-out soup dumplings. Unlike every other resident of Manhattan, Michael has never once ordered Chinese or Thai takeout—he knows he can do a far better job himself. Besides, Sydney spoiled him for Asian food. Michael, then, becomes a natural companion for my Sydney culinary adventure, during which he serves as my guide and occasional translator. (Did I mention he speaks a bit of Cantonese, Japanese and Thai?) We arrive in the final, glowing burst of Australian spring, just as the jacarandas are dropping their petals to form bright pools of lavender on the streets. For the next 14 days, we will eat Asian food for every meal—high-end, casual and everything in between.
Thai Me Upscale, Thai Me Downscale Our first stop is a Thai canteen in Surry Hills with a name out of Dr. Seuss: Spice I Am. This tiny 20-seater has no proper chairs (only drum-shaped stools), no liquor license, not even a front wall: the dining room opens on to the sidewalk, which is daintily rimmed with potted heliconia. The Thai staff—most of them related—are warm and friendly. But they could staff the place with ogres and trolls and Spice I Am would still be the best Thai restaurant in town. Som tam, which lesser kitchens pass off as a dull and starchy garnish, is here returned to its proper, brilliant self. The strips of unripe papaya and long beans are snappy and bright, the lime juice and zest ring loud and clear, and the chilies are alarmingly fiery. Pla tod ka min is a deep-fried whiting, powerful with fish flavor and nuanced with turmeric, coriander, salt, pepper and garlic. Spice I Am even serves the southern Thai specialty hoy tod, a savory crêpe filled with luscious briny mussels that I’ve never before found outside of Thailand. Michael and his friends stumbled upon Spice I Am by chance, back when few farang had heard of the place. After years under the radar, the secret’s out. David Thompson is a white Australian who happens to be one of the world’s foremost experts on Thai cuisine; his encyclopedic, 697-page cookbook Thai Food is widely considered tops in the field. Thompson is now based in London, where his seven-year-old Nahm was the first Thai restaurant ever to be awarded a Michelin star. But he rose to fame in Sydney at Sailors Thai, still going strong in the touristy The Rocks district. The austere modern space is softened by lovely yellow, pink and green silk wall coverings and vases of fragrant lilies. Our dinner includes several standouts from Thompson’s cookbook, which Michael has all but memorized. Back in New York he once made me the same braised beef ribs, with great success—yet these are a whole other thing. The grass-fed beef is richer than any I’ve tasted back home, and complemented by sharp, piquant notes of lime juice, coriander and a sprinkling of shredded kaffir-lime leaf. A northern Thai pork sausage dissolves on the tongue like foie gras, before giving way to the thrilling burn of ginger and chilies. Like Spice I Am, this is no-holds-barred Thai cooking, a 138
medley of intense yet discrete flavors—from bitter to tangy, never too sweet—that play broader and deeper than what most are accustomed to. Each plate is a lush and colorful still life that makes you wonder: can I ever go back to pad thai?
Progressive Lunch in Chinatown: Duck, Duck, Goose In a country where culinary borders exist only to be crossed, it’s perhaps not surprising that a Singapore-born, Sydney-bred Chinese woman could become a master of classical French cooking. Chui Lee Luk moved to Australia at the age of seven. As a teenager she won a copy of Waverley Root’s The Food of France in a drawing contest and read it front to back. Three decades later, Chui runs the kitchen at Claude’s, one of Sydney’s most acclaimed restaurants. But by day she finds her joy in the crowded alleyways and steam-filled dumpling joints of Chinatown. “My parents took me here every weekend back in the 1970’s, when Chinatown was just a single block,” she recalls as we stroll past shops selling deer-antler extract and bull’s testicles. “At that time, Cantonese was the only option. Now it has just exploded, and there’s all sorts of regional cooking as well.” Case in point: Chinese Noodle Restaurant, which specializes in the hearty, wintry dishes of the north. Owner Qin Xiaotang was a concert violinist back home in Beijing; arriving in Sydney in 1991, he found no orchestra work, so he opened this restaurant. Through the kitchen window you can watch Qin making his famous wheat noodles, unfurling and then beating out great long strands of dough. The noodles and braised dumplings— earthy, rich, filled with pork or spicy lamb—are the stars here, but there are also delectable fried calamari, a great jellyfish salad (remarkably crunchy, tossed with cabbage and julienned cucumbers), and a shredded-chicken salad that puts Wolfgang Puck’s version to shame. Right next door is Cho Dumpling King, where we fill up on what could be called Taiwanese tapas: small, cold, chili- and scallion-laced salads, built around seaweed or fried tofu or tiny dried fish. Michael, whose attraction to odd animal parts makes Anthony Bourdain’s seem finicky by comparison, convinces me to try a serving of his beloved pig’s ears—pale translucent strips that I mistook for sliced onions. They become my new obsession: we’ll return three times this week for more. For the finale we head up the street to Tai Wong, a decade-old barbecue shop with a windowful of lacquered ducks, geese, and what Michael calls dancing quails, lined up like Rockettes on skewers. I’m entranced by the burgundy-hued, crackly skin on the char siu—the Hong Kong–style pork that is to a Chinese barbecue joint what roast chicken is to a French bistro; if they can’t do that well, they probably can’t do much else. Tai Wong’s char siu is extraordinary, with a brittle exterior—drizzled in duck fat, if you really want to know—giving way to juicy and tender meat. »