A plate of chicken with chile, Hunan-style, comes to the table with glistening whole garlic cloves and thick ginger slices that dot a sea of deep red whole chiles burying a mound of crisp, fried chicken cubes. Eyes water and noses run, but after the initial burst of spicy heat, a symphony of umami emerges and each bite becomes more intriguing than the last.
Say what you will about the thrill of a capsicum rush, but the earthy, rough-edged cooking from Hunan in south-central China is less about pure heat than about subtle layers of flavor and a harmonious balance of salty, tart, fermented and smoky tastes.
Pickled vegetables add a bright tang to freshwater fish, smoked meats lend richness to fresh and dried vegetables, and fermented black beans provide a mystic depth to dishes that, contrary to popular belief, aren't all fiendishly hot.
Often equated with the cuisine of neighboring Sichuan, Hunan's cooking packs its own kind of heat. It isn't all about mala, the stinging and numbing sensation provided by Sichuan peppercorns. Hunanese cooks rarely use the spice, but when they do, it's subtly integrated into other seasonings, adding a distinguishing nuance.
When Hunanese-owned restaurants began showing up in Southern California in the 1980s and '90s they catered to the cosmopolitan sensibilities of immigrants from Taiwan and Hong Kong, where elite Hunanese chefs who had cooked to the tastes of Nationalist patrons settled in the late 1940s.
But a few years ago, a different sort of Hunan restaurant began peppering the San Gabriel Valley landscape, and the intensely seasoned rural cooking served here is a revelation.
At these restaurants, which are geared to a more recent wave of immigrants from mainland China, the cooking connects to a time when villagers hung pork belly slabs, chickens and even fish and vegetables over wood fires in their kitchens to preserve them with a long, slow smoking. And hot pots, a favored mode of cooking, brought families together after a hard day's labor.
When you order the smoked bamboo shoots hot pot at Hunan Restaurant in Rowland Heights, the pungent smokehouse aroma from the bubbling mini-caldron transports you back to Hunan's mist-filled countryside.
Xiang Wei Lou
The menu at Xiang Wei Lou, a plain but spiffy cafe fitted into the mini-mall next to the Hilton Hotel in San Gabriel, urges: "Please let the server know the spicy level of your taste." The request isn't necessarily addressed to non-Chinese. Restaurateurs are aiming to please customers from Hong Kong to Xinjiang.
Still, there's no shortage of capsicum at this place. Its dishes showcase a typical multiplicity of chile types and styles: dried to an almost black-red or sun-bleached; whole or crushed into flakes; ground to an incendiary powder; fresh and zingy with spurts of chile juice; soft and almost sweet, yet blazing; and, of course, pickled whole or in slices.
There's considerable talent behind the stoves here. Almost every dish achieves that aforementioned well-calibrated balance: Hot plays against tart with undertones of umami. Boiled sliced fish may sound pedestrian, but the fillets come bobbing in a viscous scarlet broth singing of herbal garlicky-ness.
Like the harmony in a jazz quartet, you get heat in several octaves in a dish of cumin beef laced with dry and fresh red peppers, and fresh jalapeños. Lamb riblets, which the menu describes as chops, are imbued with a musky herbal heat that dares you to stop eating them.
A broth with several varieties of fresh mushrooms bubbles away on a tiny burner, a token of the abundant forest mushrooms for which the region is known. For cooling the palate, there are dishes of cucumber cubes.
Hunan Seafood
Although Hunan province is situated far inland, it doesn't necessarily follow that the restaurant's name is an oxymoron. The province surrounds the vast Dong Ting Lake, and Yangtze River tributaries meander the landscape.
These provide ideal habitats for a menagerie of freshwater delicacies: sweet fish, plump shrimp, meaty frogs and turtle, all of which are on the menu here.
But the pièce de résistance at this modern chrome- and glass-decorated spot is the steamed fish head casserole with special hot pepper. Whether or not fish eyeballs and gelatinous tidbits from the skull hold any appeal, there's a generous amount of delicate meat clinging to the head's base to enjoy. Dunk it into the accompanying pool of crushed pickled chiles, garlic chunks and savory soy.
Despite the name, Hunan Seafood divides its menu equally between fish, poultry, meat and vegetable dishes.
The house specialty -- Hunan ham, smoked duck and fish -- combines all three proteins. Braised for hours, the brick-red meats, steeped in irresistible, mildly spicy juices, come to the table compressed into the shape of a bowler hat. Even the bones are edible in this wondrous dish.
Say what you will about the thrill of a capsicum rush, but the earthy, rough-edged cooking from Hunan in south-central China is less about pure heat than about subtle layers of flavor and a harmonious balance of salty, tart, fermented and smoky tastes.
Pickled vegetables add a bright tang to freshwater fish, smoked meats lend richness to fresh and dried vegetables, and fermented black beans provide a mystic depth to dishes that, contrary to popular belief, aren't all fiendishly hot.
Often equated with the cuisine of neighboring Sichuan, Hunan's cooking packs its own kind of heat. It isn't all about mala, the stinging and numbing sensation provided by Sichuan peppercorns. Hunanese cooks rarely use the spice, but when they do, it's subtly integrated into other seasonings, adding a distinguishing nuance.
When Hunanese-owned restaurants began showing up in Southern California in the 1980s and '90s they catered to the cosmopolitan sensibilities of immigrants from Taiwan and Hong Kong, where elite Hunanese chefs who had cooked to the tastes of Nationalist patrons settled in the late 1940s.
But a few years ago, a different sort of Hunan restaurant began peppering the San Gabriel Valley landscape, and the intensely seasoned rural cooking served here is a revelation.
At these restaurants, which are geared to a more recent wave of immigrants from mainland China, the cooking connects to a time when villagers hung pork belly slabs, chickens and even fish and vegetables over wood fires in their kitchens to preserve them with a long, slow smoking. And hot pots, a favored mode of cooking, brought families together after a hard day's labor.
When you order the smoked bamboo shoots hot pot at Hunan Restaurant in Rowland Heights, the pungent smokehouse aroma from the bubbling mini-caldron transports you back to Hunan's mist-filled countryside.
Xiang Wei Lou
The menu at Xiang Wei Lou, a plain but spiffy cafe fitted into the mini-mall next to the Hilton Hotel in San Gabriel, urges: "Please let the server know the spicy level of your taste." The request isn't necessarily addressed to non-Chinese. Restaurateurs are aiming to please customers from Hong Kong to Xinjiang.
Still, there's no shortage of capsicum at this place. Its dishes showcase a typical multiplicity of chile types and styles: dried to an almost black-red or sun-bleached; whole or crushed into flakes; ground to an incendiary powder; fresh and zingy with spurts of chile juice; soft and almost sweet, yet blazing; and, of course, pickled whole or in slices.
There's considerable talent behind the stoves here. Almost every dish achieves that aforementioned well-calibrated balance: Hot plays against tart with undertones of umami. Boiled sliced fish may sound pedestrian, but the fillets come bobbing in a viscous scarlet broth singing of herbal garlicky-ness.
Like the harmony in a jazz quartet, you get heat in several octaves in a dish of cumin beef laced with dry and fresh red peppers, and fresh jalapeños. Lamb riblets, which the menu describes as chops, are imbued with a musky herbal heat that dares you to stop eating them.
A broth with several varieties of fresh mushrooms bubbles away on a tiny burner, a token of the abundant forest mushrooms for which the region is known. For cooling the palate, there are dishes of cucumber cubes.
Hunan Seafood
Although Hunan province is situated far inland, it doesn't necessarily follow that the restaurant's name is an oxymoron. The province surrounds the vast Dong Ting Lake, and Yangtze River tributaries meander the landscape.
These provide ideal habitats for a menagerie of freshwater delicacies: sweet fish, plump shrimp, meaty frogs and turtle, all of which are on the menu here.
But the pièce de résistance at this modern chrome- and glass-decorated spot is the steamed fish head casserole with special hot pepper. Whether or not fish eyeballs and gelatinous tidbits from the skull hold any appeal, there's a generous amount of delicate meat clinging to the head's base to enjoy. Dunk it into the accompanying pool of crushed pickled chiles, garlic chunks and savory soy.
Despite the name, Hunan Seafood divides its menu equally between fish, poultry, meat and vegetable dishes.
The house specialty -- Hunan ham, smoked duck and fish -- combines all three proteins. Braised for hours, the brick-red meats, steeped in irresistible, mildly spicy juices, come to the table compressed into the shape of a bowler hat. Even the bones are edible in this wondrous dish.
