The New Yorker
No one prepared me for the heartbreak of losing my first language. It doesn’t feel like the sudden, sharp pain of losing someone you love, but rather a dull ache that builds slowly until it becomes a part of you.
Chef Zhan Chen’s reimagined jellyfish salad at Potluck Club in New York brings me right back to childhood.
The congee diaspora is vast: There’s juk in Korea, cháo in Vietnam, bubur in Indonesia, okayu in Japan. At one restaurant in Los Angeles, there’s congee pot pie.
There are few things more irresistible than the forbidden. My contraband: an unassuming chicken in garlic sauce served at Chinatown Restaurant, a modest Chinese takeout counter near my childhood home in Brooklyn.
Hakka cuisine is the epitome of comfort food. It’s abundantly saucy, deliciously salty, and unapologetically fatty. This trifecta of richness stems from the nomadic farming origins of Hakka people.