On Monday I headed to Flushing's Chinatown in search of exotic delights for my tummy. I've heard that the best, most authentic food, no matter what it is, is in Queens. If you want it, it's on the 7-train from Times Square to Flushing. Street food from Ecuador's coast? Head to Jackson Heights. Transylvanian pastries dusted with cocoa? Get off at Long Island City. Thai curries washed down with a pint of Guinness? Woodside's your best bet. And Flushing's Chinatown is legendary.
My plan was to wander into restaurants, point to a picture of an unknown dish, and be served some sort of new discovery. Though I'm mostly vegetarian, I allow myself an exception known as my Cultural Experience Card; I will eat meat if it's part of a unique cross-cultural or global or heritage experience. (I also have a Hospitality and Solidarity Card that I use when I'm a guest and don't want to refuse or impose on my hosts.) So I was all set to test my nerve and eat whatever dish or meat I encountered, trusting fate and my stomach.
Unfortunately, I failed. The first restaurant I came to had been reviewed favorably for its red peppercorn dumplings, but when they arrived, they were red pepper flake dumplings, an exact pork-filled replica of the mock pork dumplings at my favorite vegetarian dim sum place in Manhattan. From there on, every menu I encountered was in English. If I ordered the intestines simmered in mustard sauce intentionally, I wouldn't be trusting fate.
After my dumpling disappointment, the hardest part of the challenge was resisting the urge to get back on the train to Sunnyside for a pint and some Irish groceries. Instead, I walked up and down Flushing's Main Street. I stopped for spicy fish balls on a stick and a tiny, walnut-filled moon cake (both new dishes after all). The clouds were beginning to gather and the wind turned as I wandered, letting me know that autumn was here to stay.
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