|
Despite the fact that almost every dish had some form
of pork in it, our meal at Jai Yun reminded me of my family’s
first dinner at Greens, the pioneering, gourmet vegetarian restaurant.
I was a teenage vegetarian; it was my birthday, and my meat-eating
family had kindly indulged me, grumbling as they scanned the unfamiliar
prix fixe menu. Every vegetable, grain and cheese had a name longer
and more complicated than a Spanish colonist. But initial anxiety
quickly gave way to astonishment and delight, as each tasty course
left us in eager anticipation of the gastronomical surprises yet
to come. It was an adventure, putting our palettes (and stomachs)
completely in the hands of a stranger, albeit a highly skilled culinary
stranger.
Although I have since renounced vegetarianism and
dined in some of the finest restaurants in the U.S., I’ve
never had another dining experience to rival the sheer, unexpected
delight of that first prix fixe encounter. Until now. Jai Yun has
single-handedly restored novelty, mystery and a sense of culinary
adventure to my jaded palette.
But you’d never know it to look at it. Located
in a non-descript storefront tucked in among the residences on Pacific
Street (near Powell), Jai Yun is cloaked in the garb of any middle-brow
Chinese restaurant: same vinyl chairs, same glass-topped tables
with the lazy susan in the middle, and the piéce-de-resistance,
a commercial-size soft drink cooler standing unceremoniously at
the ready. It’s clean, hardly seedy, but nothing special.
You’d never give it a second glance, walking down the street.
The only thing that sets it apart is the small, hand-written sign
in the window, apologetically requesting that you make a reservation.
Jai Yun is reservation-only. Chef Nei Chia Ji shops
for and prepares the day’s meals depending on how many reservations
there are on any given day, and service is always family-style.
(I only know this because I read the photocopied handout available
at the entrance.) Prices range from $35 to $60 per person. You can
opt to pay more if you want something really special, but regardless
of price, you’ll have no idea what you’re eating until
it arrives at the table. A bit of a gamble, it’s exhilarating,
like dinner roulette, or navigating a winding mountain road for
the first time – you never know what’s around the next
curve. There’s no written menu, no choices, and no sense of
what to anticipate. Dishes arrive at the table with little or no
commentary. A beautiful eel (I think?) dish was described by our
server simply as “fish.” Further inquiries by the Mandarin
speakers among us sometimes resulted in further clarification, but
it hardly mattered. Everything was fresh, tasty and, well, surprising.
I think a large part of the “surprise”
factor had to do with the fact that I’d never been to a Chinese
restaurant quite like Jai Yun before. Actually, I’d never
been to any restaurant quite like Jai Yun. Fancy restaurants with
prix fixe menus give you a printed list of courses. And Chinese
banquets, though they have no paper menus, are so predictable: jellyfish,
shark’s fin soup, that lovely mayonnaise shrimp with the candied
pecans, cold chicken, chow mein. Not that there’s anything
wrong with the standards, but Jai Yun is a rare opportunity to hand
over the reins. We sampled some tasty, unexpected things and some
things that were unexpectedly tasty – pickled lotus root,
anyone? (It was the best cold app, I swear, but I never saw it coming.)
Even the dishes that resembled more standard fare were served with
a little twist, or were just so fresh that you couldn’t help
but feel as if you were tasting them for the first time. Not knowing
what’s coming next is half the fun.
The other half was the food, plain and simple. We
ordered the minimum $35/person menu, and our first course was a
sampling of 8 cold appetizers. Pickled lotus root, sliced paper-thin,
was vinegary and sweet and completely unexpected. A salad of blanched
Chinese parsley (cilantro), pine nuts and tiny, tiny cubes of marinated
tofu managed to be refreshing and rich at the same time. Jellyfish
was served with slivers of cucumber and fake crabmeat, but had an
unusual flavor that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. We also had
boiled peanuts stained bright red, slices of dense, marinated bean
curd, pickled cucumbers just like Japanese namasu, but topped with
a maraschino cherry (!), a small piece of dried, marbled beef, and
some yummy slices of steamed duck.
This bounty of taste sensations was quickly followed
by a succulent slice of stewed pork leg in a thick brown sauce.
Falling off the bone, the meat was exceedingly tender, although
the salt-addict in our party did find it a bit bland. Next up was
the aforementioned “fish” – silvery slivers mixed
with chives and red bell peppers – followed by a dish of the
shortest, widest glass noodles I’ve ever seen, stir-fried
with bell peppers, lima beans, bamboo shoots, and of course, crispy
bits of pork. We then had shrimp with bell peppers, a more conventional
dish to be sure, but the shrimp was so fresh and tender it was a
joy to sink our teeth into. Next was a dish of oblong, fried gluten
cubes accompanied by some unidentified vegetable matter –
perhaps some kind of soft bamboo? Whatever it was, it was tied very
delicately into attractive, chewy little knots that were a nice
textural companion to the lighter, curdy gluten. Tangy mustard greens
were garnished with enoki mushrooms, bean curd skin and what looked
like shark’s fin.
The most surprising dish of the evening was potentially
the most conventional: eggplant. Not the usual mushy chunks swimming
in sauce, but small, tender slices with the skin fried crispy in
chili sauce, even Oliver, eggplant-hater extraordinaire, had to
admit it was delicious. And then came something really unusual:
a metal platter filled with hot rocks, on which thin slices of lamb
were still sizzling. If all the other dishes were a surprise simply
by virtue of not knowing, this dish had them beat, hands down. I’d
never even seen lamb in a Chinese restaurant before, and what’s
more, even the lamb-haters among us liked it. Almost Mediterranean
in feel, the lamb was spicy, spiked with hot red peppers, a perfect
match for the heat emanating from the polished stones. Last, but
not least, was a hearty slice of winter melon, drenched in brown
sauce and garnished with, you guessed it, ever-yummy pork.
To be sure, Jai Yun is notable because of the unusual
niche it occupies in the dining universe. Part gourmet extravaganza,
part humble family fare, a meal there quietly subverts expectations,
course by lovely course. Were it not for the sheer quality, delicacy
and elegant simplicity of the food, this “surprise factor”
would be merely a gimmick, but Chef Nei has achieved an unusual
balance between the reassuring comfort of everyone’s favorite
Chinese American restaurant and the haute cuisine concept of chef
as ultimate auteur. Fortunately for us, the balance leans toward
the unpretentious: “Jai Yun,” the handout tells me,
means “home.”
< back to food
|
