crazy congee in nyc

shazzer demanded that the congee gets its own blog post. so here we are.

the congee was crazy. bits of chopped up roast duck in rice congee, the once crisp skin, little slivers of duck fat, bits of duck meat. it was insane. a drizzle of sesame oil and lots of white pepper. we had stumbled into this little underground eatery where for the entire duration, we were the only chinese girls in there. they first brought us English menus. I looked over at the waiter, telepathically transmitting the plea “please sir, please give us the real menu”. it worked. he read my mind and brought us over the real menus written entirely in chinese. and we ordered the real food.

and the little message in the fortune cookie at the end of the meal was so apt.

of course that wasn’t all we ate. here’s some of what else we ate.

I love the manhattan chinatown. it’s gritty, it’s real, it’s huge. streets lined with little authentic eateries, old school chinese bakeries, lots of bubble tea shops, the odd ballroom dance studio, fresh seafood markets with their styrofoam boxes of fresh fish and alligator meat, the old man and his cart selling his pancake batter balls with bach and beethoven blaring on the radio. it’s got heaps of character. I got yelled at by a woman conversing to herself about the size of my derriere for almost a block. it was flattering in a way – I’ve never had my derriere discussed at such length. and I can’t wait to go to the flushing chinatown on the weekend – I hear it kicks this chinatown’s ass.