China Bistro serves some of the most authentic cuisine in the entire region
A modest food court tucked inside a sprawling Asian grocery store in West County serves unparalleled Chinese fare.
Photo by Dave Lowry
There are certain nuances of authentic Chinese cuisine that get lost in the nearly endless parade of local eateries serving a predictable assortment of egg rolls, General Tso's chicken, and fortune cookies. Sauces are tragically over-sweetened, there's too much salt in everything, and if it can be battered and fried, it is. Subtlety is replaced with blunt flavors. Sophisticated combinations of texture are drowned in soy and oyster sauce or a weird white gravy.
Fortunately, more local Chinese restaurants have recently debuted where the word “authentic” credibly comes to mind. Some are located where you’d expect, along the strip of Olive just east of I-170, our own version of Chinatown. Some, though, have sprung up in less obvious places, such as the frantic highway hive at Manchester Road and 141.
There, next to Academy Sports, is Pan-Asia Supermarket, a sprawling Asian grocery store with a modest food court called China Bistro, almost an afterthought tucked among the aisles packed with every imaginable manner of Asian dry goods (three aisles alone are devoted just to dried noodles), fresh produce, meat and seafood.
China Bistro is outfitted with a scatter of small tables, a kitchen that's the dimensions of some restaurants’ foyers, and a modest menu.
It also serves some of the best Chinese cuisine in the entire region. Seriously. Drop in any night of the week, and you’ll see tables filled and a line at the counter. It’s pretty clear that no one’s here for crab Rangoon or sweet and sour pork. Its patrons know good Chinese food.
Photo by Dave Lowry
One of the obstacles that the Serious Diner faces in approaching such a place is a menu that can confound or intimidate. It’s like wanting to get into a club but being unsure of how to dress. Scanning the menu above the counter, translations of such characters as “Beijing Signature Noodles” or “Fish Fillet in Wine Sauce” don’t offer a lot of useful clues. You can take along someone fluent in both the language and cuisine. Or you can just choose based on whatever might strike your fancy.
At China Bistro, some offerings are self-explanatory. Whole roast ducks hang from hooks in glass-fronted warming ovens, alongside chunks of pork. The ducks are glazed with a mixture of soy sauce and honey until the skin crackles and glistens like a bronze shellac. You can buy the whole thing, a half, or a quarter, chopped into magnificently tender pieces, the meat impossibly tender.
The pork is rendered into char siu, a roasted kind of barbecue that renders the meat fragrant and juicy. You can get either duck or pork along with a side of rice.
Here’s a suggestion, though: Try the suan cai yu, which is listed in English as “Pickled veggie with fish fillet soup.”
“It’s spicy,” the woman behind the counter warned when we ordered it.
No kidding.
Most fans of Szechuan dining are familiar with mala, the tingling that both delightfully burns and excites a near-addictive response. It’s a hard sensation to describe, a combination of flavor, aromatics, and a restrained heat. Approximations of mala are relatively easy; most of the time, you’ll taste cayenne or some other pepper—hot and spicy but one-dimensional. China Bistro does it the right way.
Photo by Dave Lowry
The giant bowl alone is awe-inspiring. It’s resembles an iron-smelting cauldron. The broth is composed primarily of demon’s tears. Also, a fish stock, ginger, garlic, Shaoxiang wine, pixian hot bean paste, a glug of soy sauce, and sprinkle of sesame seeds. Big chunks of white fish float like little icebergs. The greens are cai chua, a pickled mustard green; the leaves and stems lend the “sour” taste to the dish.
Photo by Dave Lowry
Then there is the spice. Szechuan peppercorns are the seed husks from an Asian evergreen shrub. The aroma and taste have a faint lemony perfume. They’re scattered in the soup like those little popper firecrackers tossed onto a driveway. It’s impossible not to bite down on one. The reaction is much like strolling across that driveway. Just for good measure, there are a couple of dozen skinny green Tabasco peppers, along with chopped dried chile peppers the color of bright rust, each adding its particular heat.
The result isn’t one of those Man Vs. Food kinds of heat. It’s a subtle warmth that kindles, enrobing your tongue and tingling every taste bud. The fragrance of the Szechuan peppers drifts up, tickling the palate. It’s smoky and glowing, like a mouthful of Laphroaig whiskey. Crunch into one of those peppercorns, and there’s a sparkle, a flicker. It’s not like the insidious heat of Thai chiles or fiery Mexican fare. You don’t need milk to kill it. Just take a sip of water, and everything mellows. If tastes had colors, the flavor of such a splendidly constructed Szechuan dish would resemble a warm, golden sunset. It doesn’t last long—but you can’t wait to take another bite.
Then there is China bistro’s take on mapo tofu. There are a hundred ways to make this poorly; Americanized Chinese restaurants use a number of shortcuts. The version here, on the other hand, is spectacularly precise, painstakingly authentic. It’s a lesson in the right way to present this classic.
Photo by Dave Lowry
Photo by Dave Lowry
First, and most important, there is the seasoning. China Bistro uses dobujiang (a Szechuan chili bean paste that adds a dark molasses), ginger, and garlic, sliced thin, their flavors sharp and bright. Fermented black beans and those peppercorns are added, as well as ground pork and cubes of soft, custardy tofu. The alchemy is in folding those creamy, gelatinous squares of tofu into the sauce without breaking it.
When the dish is cleaned, there’s still a shimmer of bright red oil on the plate. The color comes from the hot bean paste and chili powder. Dump whatever leftover rice you have on it to get every last taste.
Not everything here has Szechuan influences. Cantonese beef chao fun is also gloriously authentic. The noodles—wide, flat ribbons called ho fun—are ribbons woven through a combination of carrots and shaven flakes of beef. The dish is redolent of that smoky scent of hot-seared beef, a unique taste that comes from a well-seasoned wok fired until it’s just at the point below melting. It sizzles when served. The broad noodles add a starchy undercurrent to the crispy-edged beef.
Photo by Dave Lowry
Chao fun requires a quick, energetic stirring when it’s prepared to keep the wet noodles from sticking to the wok. At the same time, it’s important not to stir too roughly to keep the noodles from breaking up. It’s a standard dish for evaluating the skills of a Cantonese-style chef. There aren’t many better versions around St. Louis.
Saturday and Sunday evenings are ideal for visiting China Bistro. At that time, the Pan-Asia grocery store is a beehive of activity, a United Nations of shoppers. Sit and watch the carts go by, and try to figure if you can tell their nationality by what’s in them.
