Magical Mystery Chinese Joint

So, it's Tuesday night and there's no food in the house. My roommate and I have been cooking almost every night but tonight there's really no will to start up the old stove and fire up some comfort food. And we need it. Bad.

So, what are we to do? It's a Wong's night.

If you've never been there, you'll just walk right by it. The filthy-looking fish tank full of nearly catatonic fish is hardly a welcome sign on an already uninviting storefront. If your trusted foodie friend insists on taking you there, as was my case, and you trust this person enough to allow yourself to be taken past the mysterious screen that obscures the passerby's occasional glance, you'll have a great reward for your bravery.

Wong's is a huge joint. Two dinning rooms on two levels, both about the same size. On the first floor, you'll see your typical Chinese eatery: fluorescent lights, T.V. in the back and forever turned on to the Chinese channel, round tables and booths covered with green or red tablecloths almost turned to lace with cigarette burns, busy waiters and clearly Asian waitresses and the patient shadow of the family cat gliding under the table.

Look behind the counter, over the cooling chambers and, sure enough, there's the huge golden cat, comforting spirit of prosperity, permanently waving its arm and staring with massive green enamel eyes. Find the cashier and you'll see the proud owner: a venerable-looking man of undefinable age, cigarette always hanging from the corner of his lip, burning away. When he barks an order or a greeting (hard to tell which is which), the precarious column of ash barely moves, evidence of the level of expertise he's reached.
Sometimes, you'll see a quiet figure at the cash register. You'll probably just see the top of her head from your seat, bobbing up and down as she tirelessly crunches page after page of numbers. She's the matriarch and she'll surely be heard once or twice during the evening. She'll burst out a shrill demand (or expression of joy, I can't tell) to a nearby unlucky waitress. Family matters, no doubt,

On the second floor, a somber venue reserved mostly for private parties. For us, poor non-Asians, these solemnities are absolutely incomprehensible. The room is packed will large groups composed of 3 or 4 generations, high-pitch musical sounds, karaoke and a never-ending line of waiters carrying dish after dish. What do they commemorate with their graceful giggle, their delicate silk dresses and with the ceremonious way of seating their elders at the main table? Sadly but truly, I'll never know.

The patrons are the mos remarkable characteristic of Wong's. Take a look around and you might see an exhausted security guard getting a cheap and satisfying meal after his shift is over, a table-full of hippy-looking university students, young couples with their first child, stylish girls, emos, actors and dancers showing off after their shows, bikers, the punk Elvis Presley, the occasional trannie, a small group of techies, bodybuilders and, of course, many Chinese families. And among all of them, the Chinese Mafia and the Godmother, a modest lady with bright red hair who walks in surrounded by a shady entourage.


Imagine, and all this, before you even order your meal. The waiter spots me and my roommate, and he immediately turns back behind the counter. I'm not alarmed. He knows his trade. He returns, bearing the essentials: an aluminum container with hot water where he sticks chopsticks and forks, an old rickety pot of jasmine tea, my bottle of Imperial with a chilled glass, my ashtray, our two menus and the dim sum sheet. He never walks away without asking me with a wink if I'll have the usual. And yes, I'll have the usual.

If you're out on a Tuesday night, yearning for a bowl of liquid comfort, the number is 38. Humongous bowl of aromatic beef broth spiced with ginger, star anise and hundreds of secret Asian spices, loaded with thin rice noodles, bok-choy and an obcene amount of beef chunks beautifully lined with fat. And I always say I won't be able to finish it all. And I always do.

My roomie loves their dim-sum and so do I. The table gets gradually filled with small bamboo steamers, each one a case for their delicious gems: dumplings. Shrimp with chives, shrimp and bamboo shoots, pork, ground beef with peanuts, vegetable, deep-fried taro root squares, sigh....

This surprising meal is definitely the reason why people keep coming back to this weird magical land. Great food, stimulating atmosphere, a small bill. Oh, yeah, I forgot. There's a procedure for the bill. Every time the waiter brings one more piece of goodness to the table, he picks up a green card in which he'll proceed to write strange symbols. I don't know what they mean, but you have to retrieve said card and hand it over at the cash register. The owner will snatch it from your hand and calculate your bill. For me and my roommate, the usual bill is around 12 thousand colones, which comes to about $10 US per person.

So, it's Tuesday night and I have a belly full of my favorite cheap comfort food and all is right with the world. I don't see how a visit to San Jose can be complete without an evening at this magical mystery land. Next time, fried pepper shrimp and hot-sour soup. Oh, and don't bother with desserts.