#aesthetic is using the icons I have for my char in other group as my OOC icons here and vice versa

[magushunter]

Starter/plotting call!

Slam dat mf like for a starter! Probably will be at least a few paragraphs, knowing me. Capping at 3 for now.

If you want to plot something specific, feel free to message on here or on Discord, or ping me in the group server, whatever floats your boat. Whether it’s a short-term idea or a long-term one, go for it.

[seederturnip4-blog]

Andrew Zimmern’s Lucky Cricket Is More Than a Controversy. It’s Also a Bad Restaurant.

It’s awkward to enter a restaurant like Lucky Cricket during a moment of controversy: The staff must carry on and do their jobs, knowing that some of their guests might just be rubberneckers hoping to get a glimpse of the place that its co-owner, travel television star Andrew Zimmern, claimed would save the Midwest from bad Chinese food. The ceilings of the dining rooms are decorated like the woven bamboo sides of a Chinese cricket cage, and that night, it felt like an apt touch: We were trapped here, restaurant staff, suburbanites, and media vultures all, trying to dig both meaning and livelihood from a place suddenly overloaded with the wrong kind of fame. On the night I went, the restaurant was three weeks old and chugging along, with Zimmern reportedly popping in once in a while to expedite in the kitchen.

I came to see Zimmern’s vision for the future with my own eyes — to view his secret weapon in the crusade against faux Chinese-American cuisine. To be absolutely clear, the firestorm around his remarks to Fast Company, wherein he said, “I think I’m saving the souls of all the people from having to dine at these horseshit restaurants masquerading as Chinese food that are in the Midwest,” was never a conversation about whether a white man could cook Chinese. (Of course people can cook whatever they want — relax.) It was about the strange idea that the food-court Chinese joints of the nation were a problem that needed fixing in the first place. That we the people have been duped by orange chicken and crab rangoon, and he, the world traveler and gourmand, would release us from our ignorance. In the fallout from Zimmern’s remarks, an essay I wrote in 2013 on cultural appropriation was quoted by Eater’s early coverage; writers of subsequent stories asked me for meatier quotes, and I obliged. For my trouble, I got an anonymous call on my cellphone from an earnest Zimmern stan, which made me want to go to Lucky Cricket even more.

Lucky Cricket is ostensibly our escape vessel from the tyranny of shopping-mall cashew chicken — so what does it look like? It looks dark and full of logos, a jumble of confusing signifiers. Adorned with a palm-thatched roof and giant Tiki faces with slushie machines in their mouths, the bar screams, “Rainforest Cafe but also Margaritaville.” Its tables’ surfaces feature iconic exotica album covers, celebrating an American musical genre famous for mixing the sounds of kotos, bongos, and gongs into a pan-Pacific pastiche of sound. That room was the first red flag.

If Lucky Cricket is meant to show us “real” Chinese cuisine, why is there a heavy Tiki element here? The Tiki aesthetic itself is mired in illusion, an invention of post-World War II Hollywood. You get the sense, being there, that you’re in a Disneyfied vision of the East. You see a Thai tuk-tuk (which of course you can sit in), photos of Asian marketplaces so generic it’s hard to place them, and posters that say “HAWAII,” while tucking into a plate of hand-torn noodles inspired by the cuisine of China’s central plateau. If this restaurant were a piece of writing, an editor would call it a “centaur”: two distinct organisms slapped together in an uncanny mess.

By the host station, there was already a wall of merch: T-shirts saying “Get lucky” awkwardly machine-translated into Chinese characters (a point of pride for Zimmern in the Fast Company interview) and a collection of kitschy Tiki mugs. Regardless of any complaints one might have about the rest of the restaurant’s authenticity, at least we know the mugs were manufactured in China. A private party space in the back, with sparse but blood-red decor, was labeled “Kung Food Room.”

In his remarks to Fast Company, Zimmern revealed that the goal of Lucky Cricket, aside from its own propagation as a nationwide chain, is to educate the Midwestern consumer and share the Chinese flavors and refinement that he experienced on his own culinary journey. The menu, he said, would feature his “favorites from around China.” Considering all of the bombast surrounding this opening, I at least expected the food to be decent, to be forced to admit that, yes, it was at least better than PF Chang’s, or even better than the Leeann Chin — Minnesota’s own Chinese-American chain — across the street. Yet the short menu felt incredibly watered down, and there was something fundamentally off about the execution of the majority of the items my group tried.

Top left: Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps. Top right: Soy sauce noodles. Bottom: Soy sauce noodles; Hong Kong waffles and Shanghai fried chicken; sheng jian bao; roast duck at Lucky Cricket.

The dan dan noodles were perhaps the most disappointing item we ordered. The flat egg noodles were a strange improvisation from the thin and cylindrical ones that a diner would normally see in this dish — are Midwesterners not used to spaghetti? To make matters more dire, the noodles were overdone to an Easy Mac consistency. The ground pork topping, meant to carry tang from pickled greens and numbing spice from ground Sichuan peppers, tasted like microwaved, airline economy-class breakfast sausage and was bereft of moisture. If we evaluate Zimmern in his self-appointed role as an educator, he has failed to introduce the dish properly.

Another basic item, the fried rice, was minimally and unevenly seasoned, absent of any crisp or wok-induced char. Even the bits of char siu, which one would normally expect to contribute some flavor, were tasteless. The dish required more than a little dousing with soy sauce and chile oil, provided to the table in Lucky Cricket-branded bottles. (The typeface may look familiar to fans of the late food magazine Lucky Peach.) More compelling were the Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps with ground pork, tofu, and loads of chopped garlic chives and an eggplant duo, one portion deep-fried and the other glazed with soy sauce and chiles. Both dishes were openly borrowed from other Chinese restaurants: Happy Stony Noodle in Queens, New York, and Peter Chang Cafe in Glen Allen, Virginia.

That the kitchen’s interpretation of the basics of Chinese meals — noodles and rice — were remarkably deficient is telling: So much went into the over-the-top aesthetic of the place, yet the details, those nuances that would supposedly shame every Panda Express cook in the nation, were actually worse for the wear. If Zimmern hadn’t set expectations so high on the realness scale, perhaps one would have forgiven the kitchen for its mishandling of building-block Chinese dishes. But if you can’t do noodles and rice, maybe try barking up someone else’s tree.

According to his Instagram, Zimmern occasionally checks in on the restaurant, though surely he’s not the one sending out those plates (nor would anyone reasonably expect him to). But if he were, perhaps that would be even more troubling, considering his claims of expertise. What Zimmern said during his video interview with Fast Company clarified for many what his intentions for the restaurant, for which he is a business partner, would be. And it’s not appreciation for the countless Chinese-American restaurateurs and cooks who adapted their cuisines to meet American palates where they were. Those pioneers did this for the sakes of their livelihoods and families, working day and night hawking General Tso’s chicken and sweet-and-sour pork so their kids could go to college. It’s hard to watch a well-resourced and connected outsider like Zimmern denigrate their contributions to American food culture while intending to profit off of the same.

Call me optimistic or naive, but I don’t think that the diners of Middle America, an increasingly diverse and worldly bunch, would be satisfied with an experience that is actually worse than food-court Chinese — as if a few aesthetic distractions like giant Tiki faces and Google-translated Chinese would make the experience feel more “real,” whatever that means. It’s hard to leave the restaurant with a strong impression of what it wants from you: It carries kitschy, mildly racist irony in one hand, and an argument for its own expertise in the other. That said, the vision of authenticity that Zimmern and his partners are peddling here exists in tension with a clear desire to filter it out of fear that Middle America can’t handle the good shit. And say what you will about Panda Express, but at least the fried rice is seasoned there.

Soleil Ho is a Minneapolis-based writer and podcaster, who is moving to California next year to be the dining critic at the San Francisco Chronicle. Katie Cannon is a Minneapolis-based photographer. Editor: Hillary Dixler Canavan

Eater.com

The freshest news from the food world every day

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2018/12/7/18130579/andrew-zimmern-lucky-cricket-controversy-visit

[daisycactus20-blog]

Andrew Zimmern’s Lucky Cricket Is More Than a Controversy. It’s Also a Bad Restaurant.

It’s awkward to enter a restaurant like Lucky Cricket during a moment of controversy: The staff must carry on and do their jobs, knowing that some of their guests might just be rubberneckers hoping to get a glimpse of the place that its co-owner, travel television star Andrew Zimmern, claimed would save the Midwest from bad Chinese food. The ceilings of the dining rooms are decorated like the woven bamboo sides of a Chinese cricket cage, and that night, it felt like an apt touch: We were trapped here, restaurant staff, suburbanites, and media vultures all, trying to dig both meaning and livelihood from a place suddenly overloaded with the wrong kind of fame. On the night I went, the restaurant was three weeks old and chugging along, with Zimmern reportedly popping in once in a while to expedite in the kitchen.

I came to see Zimmern’s vision for the future with my own eyes — to view his secret weapon in the crusade against faux Chinese-American cuisine. To be absolutely clear, the firestorm around his remarks to Fast Company, wherein he said, “I think I’m saving the souls of all the people from having to dine at these horseshit restaurants masquerading as Chinese food that are in the Midwest,” was never a conversation about whether a white man could cook Chinese. (Of course people can cook whatever they want — relax.) It was about the strange idea that the food-court Chinese joints of the nation were a problem that needed fixing in the first place. That we the people have been duped by orange chicken and crab rangoon, and he, the world traveler and gourmand, would release us from our ignorance. In the fallout from Zimmern’s remarks, an essay I wrote in 2013 on cultural appropriation was quoted by Eater’s early coverage; writers of subsequent stories asked me for meatier quotes, and I obliged. For my trouble, I got an anonymous call on my cellphone from an earnest Zimmern stan, which made me want to go to Lucky Cricket even more.

Lucky Cricket is ostensibly our escape vessel from the tyranny of shopping-mall cashew chicken — so what does it look like? It looks dark and full of logos, a jumble of confusing signifiers. Adorned with a palm-thatched roof and giant Tiki faces with slushie machines in their mouths, the bar screams, “Rainforest Cafe but also Margaritaville.” Its tables’ surfaces feature iconic exotica album covers, celebrating an American musical genre famous for mixing the sounds of kotos, bongos, and gongs into a pan-Pacific pastiche of sound. That room was the first red flag.

If Lucky Cricket is meant to show us “real” Chinese cuisine, why is there a heavy Tiki element here? The Tiki aesthetic itself is mired in illusion, an invention of post-World War II Hollywood. You get the sense, being there, that you’re in a Disneyfied vision of the East. You see a Thai tuk-tuk (which of course you can sit in), photos of Asian marketplaces so generic it’s hard to place them, and posters that say “HAWAII,” while tucking into a plate of hand-torn noodles inspired by the cuisine of China’s central plateau. If this restaurant were a piece of writing, an editor would call it a “centaur”: two distinct organisms slapped together in an uncanny mess.

By the host station, there was already a wall of merch: T-shirts saying “Get lucky” awkwardly machine-translated into Chinese characters (a point of pride for Zimmern in the Fast Company interview) and a collection of kitschy Tiki mugs. Regardless of any complaints one might have about the rest of the restaurant’s authenticity, at least we know the mugs were manufactured in China. A private party space in the back, with sparse but blood-red decor, was labeled “Kung Food Room.”

In his remarks to Fast Company, Zimmern revealed that the goal of Lucky Cricket, aside from its own propagation as a nationwide chain, is to educate the Midwestern consumer and share the Chinese flavors and refinement that he experienced on his own culinary journey. The menu, he said, would feature his “favorites from around China.” Considering all of the bombast surrounding this opening, I at least expected the food to be decent, to be forced to admit that, yes, it was at least better than PF Chang’s, or even better than the Leeann Chin — Minnesota’s own Chinese-American chain — across the street. Yet the short menu felt incredibly watered down, and there was something fundamentally off about the execution of the majority of the items my group tried.

Top left: Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps. Top right: Soy sauce noodles. Bottom: Soy sauce noodles; Hong Kong waffles and Shanghai fried chicken; sheng jian bao; roast duck at Lucky Cricket.

The dan dan noodles were perhaps the most disappointing item we ordered. The flat egg noodles were a strange improvisation from the thin and cylindrical ones that a diner would normally see in this dish — are Midwesterners not used to spaghetti? To make matters more dire, the noodles were overdone to an Easy Mac consistency. The ground pork topping, meant to carry tang from pickled greens and numbing spice from ground Sichuan peppers, tasted like microwaved, airline economy-class breakfast sausage and was bereft of moisture. If we evaluate Zimmern in his self-appointed role as an educator, he has failed to introduce the dish properly.

Another basic item, the fried rice, was minimally and unevenly seasoned, absent of any crisp or wok-induced char. Even the bits of char siu, which one would normally expect to contribute some flavor, were tasteless. The dish required more than a little dousing with soy sauce and chile oil, provided to the table in Lucky Cricket-branded bottles. (The typeface may look familiar to fans of the late food magazine Lucky Peach.) More compelling were the Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps with ground pork, tofu, and loads of chopped garlic chives and an eggplant duo, one portion deep-fried and the other glazed with soy sauce and chiles. Both dishes were openly borrowed from other Chinese restaurants: Happy Stony Noodle in Queens, New York, and Peter Chang Cafe in Glen Allen, Virginia.

That the kitchen’s interpretation of the basics of Chinese meals — noodles and rice — were remarkably deficient is telling: So much went into the over-the-top aesthetic of the place, yet the details, those nuances that would supposedly shame every Panda Express cook in the nation, were actually worse for the wear. If Zimmern hadn’t set expectations so high on the realness scale, perhaps one would have forgiven the kitchen for its mishandling of building-block Chinese dishes. But if you can’t do noodles and rice, maybe try barking up someone else’s tree.

According to his Instagram, Zimmern occasionally checks in on the restaurant, though surely he’s not the one sending out those plates (nor would anyone reasonably expect him to). But if he were, perhaps that would be even more troubling, considering his claims of expertise. What Zimmern said during his video interview with Fast Company clarified for many what his intentions for the restaurant, for which he is a business partner, would be. And it’s not appreciation for the countless Chinese-American restaurateurs and cooks who adapted their cuisines to meet American palates where they were. Those pioneers did this for the sakes of their livelihoods and families, working day and night hawking General Tso’s chicken and sweet-and-sour pork so their kids could go to college. It’s hard to watch a well-resourced and connected outsider like Zimmern denigrate their contributions to American food culture while intending to profit off of the same.

Call me optimistic or naive, but I don’t think that the diners of Middle America, an increasingly diverse and worldly bunch, would be satisfied with an experience that is actually worse than food-court Chinese — as if a few aesthetic distractions like giant Tiki faces and Google-translated Chinese would make the experience feel more “real,” whatever that means. It’s hard to leave the restaurant with a strong impression of what it wants from you: It carries kitschy, mildly racist irony in one hand, and an argument for its own expertise in the other. That said, the vision of authenticity that Zimmern and his partners are peddling here exists in tension with a clear desire to filter it out of fear that Middle America can’t handle the good shit. And say what you will about Panda Express, but at least the fried rice is seasoned there.

Soleil Ho is a Minneapolis-based writer and podcaster, who is moving to California next year to be the dining critic at the San Francisco Chronicle. Katie Cannon is a Minneapolis-based photographer. Editor: Hillary Dixler Canavan

Eater.com

The freshest news from the food world every day

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2018/12/7/18130579/andrew-zimmern-lucky-cricket-controversy-visit

[leeoliver]

5, 8, 14, 19, 39 iunia and/or ezra

(char dev)

5. how do they dress? what styles, colors, accessories, and other possessions do they favor? why?

tbh itd be much more interesting to talk abt how iunia used to dress bcos now shes either wearing armor or her pharasma robes (which are like fancy funeral wear) she and wesviz were honestly like. fashion icons who wore an embarrassing amount of matching couples outfits. she really likes wearing like coral and salmon and peach bcos she feels like her skins too pale but those sort of warm pink and orangish tones bring color back into it. and shed do like dramatic bright makeup, especially eyes (lips were usually a solid tone bcos she and wesviz would match their lip colors to each others shirts) but stopped wearing makeup when she got pregnant bcos she remembered hearing like 10 years ago that wearing makeup when pregnant was bad for the kid. also her hair used to be really long like almost waist length and she cut it really short after wesviz died and kept it short while she was looking for cens and is only just now starting to grow it out again.

(human) ezras got like. a meticulous aesthetic going on that probs takes way more effort than they care to admit in the wasteland. they keep their clothes really really clean, though that starts to get hard after a while, and know enough basic sewing to mend any rips that occur moderately well. anyway its generally like cream/beige/brown/sometimes like yellow or like burnt orange turtlenecks and then prewar dress slacks and loafers. occasionally they wear like a white button down and like dark yellow sweater vest and bowtie, but thats for like special occasions. they definitely shine their shoes. as a ghoul the kind of start to let themself go, wearing this really big cloak w a hood so they can hide their face and stuff but it turns out that a six and a half ft tall figure of ambiguous species in a long menacing cloak and hood draws more attention than a six and a half ft tall ghoul in a tan prewar suit, so theyre doing better now.

8. where and when do they seem most and least at ease? why? how can you tell?

iunia knows a delivery table like the back of her hand. she can get like kind of intense when shes in the birthing zone, really barking orders but you definitely get the sense she knows what shes doing and is in total control of the situation. like shes super deep in her element. its pretty impressive. def uncomfortable in like wilderness or survival areas, prior to the events of coct shes never in her life been outside city limits. constantly looking around her and over her shoulder, holds her gear really tight if shes carrying any.

ezras really good in really pristine, regulated places like the vault. a lot of ppl would consider something that like regulated and controlled dystopian or monotonous but they fit really well into the machine. ezra as a person can get into fanatical territory really really quickly so like all hail the overseer and that sort of thing is something they really get into. so they of course like really have no idea how to act in a lot of more like rough and tumble sort of rugged wasteland towns. it was the first time theyd sort of been in a situation where a lethal fight or something breaking out was an actual possibility, and it scared them half to death.

14. What do they care deeply about? What kind of loyalties, commitments, moral codes, life philosophies, passions, callings, or spirituality and faith do they have? How do these tend to be expressed?

mm iunias really conflicted here bcos she always feels like the temple and stuff should be her number one priority, that her past life is exactly that–in the past. but at the same time i feel like if theres a situation where she has to choose between her goddess and her son (and knowing how devious avery is, im fully expecting there will be) shed go with the latter. no matter what. in terms of more like general talk on faith and spirituality, shes definitely very devout and she can absolutely come off as like im blanking on the word like pushing OH proselytizing she can come off as proselytizing but i feel like so much of it is unconscious? like even if shes not actively trying to like convert someone her faith is such a huge part of her identity and it bleeds into a lot of how she interacts w the world.

lmao iunia and ezra just happen to be like my two most religious characters so good question. ezra is like unbearably classic lawful good they just really want to help people like definitely in terms of humanitarian aid but also smaller stuff like being really nice to people, making themself available as a shoulder to cry on, things like that. wrt religion ezras definitely very devout but they feel. super uncomfortable discussing faith w anyone other than their dad (and i havent finished fo3 but if theres another character whos very into like faith and stuff them too) so for them its more below the surface, esp compared w iunia

19. how do they behave within a group? what role(s) do they take? does this differ if they know and trust the group, versus finding themselves in a group of strangers? why?

iunia is definitely really like cold professional, but the best way to work w her is to give her a job and then just dont interfere w however she does it. i dont think id consider her a leader, but shes good at like timetables and organization so its definitely helpful to have her in a position where she can keep everyone on track in some capacity. i think the only change were the group to go from strangers to friends is that shes a little more flexible and willing to get input from friends whereas if a stranger (who often times would be 15~ yrs younger than her) did anything to imply that she wasnt competent shed be like. like you shouldnt do that. iunias so many things but incompetent is so incredibly not one of them.

ezras definitely gonna work better in a small group where theres not a lot of variation in goals and morals (theyre pretty flexible on specific means and stuff of getting a job done, with some hard rules on violence and stuff) and a lot of the time w/o a definite leader. if there is a leader theyve gotta play into that like zealous god-worshipping side of ezra and be like larger than life if they want unwavering support.

39. what sort of questions or thoughts recur in their lives, either specifically or as a theme? why are these never answered, or answered permanently to their satisfaction?

iunia wants to know why everyone leaves her. and given that her ongoing story is yet to start, i cant quite answer the second part of that question.

ezra deals a lot i guess w sense of self and identity? they definitely struggle w navigating life w/o their dad, both when he leaves the vault and after he dies. they define them self a lot thru how other ppl view them, and their dad is pretty much like. idk if i want to use like medical terms but id call him their fp. and so w/o him to sort of reassure them and tell them who they are, they have no idea.

[bordersmash8-blog]

Andrew Zimmern’s Lucky Cricket Is More Than a Controversy. It’s Also a Bad Restaurant.

It’s awkward to enter a restaurant like Lucky Cricket during a moment of controversy: The staff must carry on and do their jobs, knowing that some of their guests might just be rubberneckers hoping to get a glimpse of the place that its co-owner, travel television star Andrew Zimmern, claimed would save the Midwest from bad Chinese food. The ceilings of the dining rooms are decorated like the woven bamboo sides of a Chinese cricket cage, and that night, it felt like an apt touch: We were trapped here, restaurant staff, suburbanites, and media vultures all, trying to dig both meaning and livelihood from a place suddenly overloaded with the wrong kind of fame. On the night I went, the restaurant was three weeks old and chugging along, with Zimmern reportedly popping in once in a while to expedite in the kitchen.

I came to see Zimmern’s vision for the future with my own eyes — to view his secret weapon in the crusade against faux Chinese-American cuisine. To be absolutely clear, the firestorm around his remarks to Fast Company, wherein he said, “I think I’m saving the souls of all the people from having to dine at these horseshit restaurants masquerading as Chinese food that are in the Midwest,” was never a conversation about whether a white man could cook Chinese. (Of course people can cook whatever they want — relax.) It was about the strange idea that the food-court Chinese joints of the nation were a problem that needed fixing in the first place. That we the people have been duped by orange chicken and crab rangoon, and he, the world traveler and gourmand, would release us from our ignorance. In the fallout from Zimmern’s remarks, an essay I wrote in 2013 on cultural appropriation was quoted by Eater’s early coverage; writers of subsequent stories asked me for meatier quotes, and I obliged. For my trouble, I got an anonymous call on my cellphone from an earnest Zimmern stan, which made me want to go to Lucky Cricket even more.

Lucky Cricket is ostensibly our escape vessel from the tyranny of shopping-mall cashew chicken — so what does it look like? It looks dark and full of logos, a jumble of confusing signifiers. Adorned with a palm-thatched roof and giant Tiki faces with slushie machines in their mouths, the bar screams, “Rainforest Cafe but also Margaritaville.” Its tables’ surfaces feature iconic exotica album covers, celebrating an American musical genre famous for mixing the sounds of kotos, bongos, and gongs into a pan-Pacific pastiche of sound. That room was the first red flag.

If Lucky Cricket is meant to show us “real” Chinese cuisine, why is there a heavy Tiki element here? The Tiki aesthetic itself is mired in illusion, an invention of post-World War II Hollywood. You get the sense, being there, that you’re in a Disneyfied vision of the East. You see a Thai tuk-tuk (which of course you can sit in), photos of Asian marketplaces so generic it’s hard to place them, and posters that say “HAWAII,” while tucking into a plate of hand-torn noodles inspired by the cuisine of China’s central plateau. If this restaurant were a piece of writing, an editor would call it a “centaur”: two distinct organisms slapped together in an uncanny mess.

By the host station, there was already a wall of merch: T-shirts saying “Get lucky” awkwardly machine-translated into Chinese characters (a point of pride for Zimmern in the Fast Company interview) and a collection of kitschy Tiki mugs. Regardless of any complaints one might have about the rest of the restaurant’s authenticity, at least we know the mugs were manufactured in China. A private party space in the back, with sparse but blood-red decor, was labeled “Kung Food Room.”

In his remarks to Fast Company, Zimmern revealed that the goal of Lucky Cricket, aside from its own propagation as a nationwide chain, is to educate the Midwestern consumer and share the Chinese flavors and refinement that he experienced on his own culinary journey. The menu, he said, would feature his “favorites from around China.” Considering all of the bombast surrounding this opening, I at least expected the food to be decent, to be forced to admit that, yes, it was at least better than PF Chang’s, or even better than the Leeann Chin — Minnesota’s own Chinese-American chain — across the street. Yet the short menu felt incredibly watered down, and there was something fundamentally off about the execution of the majority of the items my group tried.

Top left: Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps. Top right: Soy sauce noodles. Bottom: Soy sauce noodles; Hong Kong waffles and Shanghai fried chicken; sheng jian bao; roast duck at Lucky Cricket.

The dan dan noodles were perhaps the most disappointing item we ordered. The flat egg noodles were a strange improvisation from the thin and cylindrical ones that a diner would normally see in this dish — are Midwesterners not used to spaghetti? To make matters more dire, the noodles were overdone to an Easy Mac consistency. The ground pork topping, meant to carry tang from pickled greens and numbing spice from ground Sichuan peppers, tasted like microwaved, airline economy-class breakfast sausage and was bereft of moisture. If we evaluate Zimmern in his self-appointed role as an educator, he has failed to introduce the dish properly.

Another basic item, the fried rice, was minimally and unevenly seasoned, absent of any crisp or wok-induced char. Even the bits of char siu, which one would normally expect to contribute some flavor, were tasteless. The dish required more than a little dousing with soy sauce and chile oil, provided to the table in Lucky Cricket-branded bottles. (The typeface may look familiar to fans of the late food magazine Lucky Peach.) More compelling were the Stony’s Flyhead lettuce wraps with ground pork, tofu, and loads of chopped garlic chives and an eggplant duo, one portion deep-fried and the other glazed with soy sauce and chiles. Both dishes were openly borrowed from other Chinese restaurants: Happy Stony Noodle in Queens, New York, and Peter Chang Cafe in Glen Allen, Virginia.

That the kitchen’s interpretation of the basics of Chinese meals — noodles and rice — were remarkably deficient is telling: So much went into the over-the-top aesthetic of the place, yet the details, those nuances that would supposedly shame every Panda Express cook in the nation, were actually worse for the wear. If Zimmern hadn’t set expectations so high on the realness scale, perhaps one would have forgiven the kitchen for its mishandling of building-block Chinese dishes. But if you can’t do noodles and rice, maybe try barking up someone else’s tree.

According to his Instagram, Zimmern occasionally checks in on the restaurant, though surely he’s not the one sending out those plates (nor would anyone reasonably expect him to). But if he were, perhaps that would be even more troubling, considering his claims of expertise. What Zimmern said during his video interview with Fast Company clarified for many what his intentions for the restaurant, for which he is a business partner, would be. And it’s not appreciation for the countless Chinese-American restaurateurs and cooks who adapted their cuisines to meet American palates where they were. Those pioneers did this for the sakes of their livelihoods and families, working day and night hawking General Tso’s chicken and sweet-and-sour pork so their kids could go to college. It’s hard to watch a well-resourced and connected outsider like Zimmern denigrate their contributions to American food culture while intending to profit off of the same.

Call me optimistic or naive, but I don’t think that the diners of Middle America, an increasingly diverse and worldly bunch, would be satisfied with an experience that is actually worse than food-court Chinese — as if a few aesthetic distractions like giant Tiki faces and Google-translated Chinese would make the experience feel more “real,” whatever that means. It’s hard to leave the restaurant with a strong impression of what it wants from you: It carries kitschy, mildly racist irony in one hand, and an argument for its own expertise in the other. That said, the vision of authenticity that Zimmern and his partners are peddling here exists in tension with a clear desire to filter it out of fear that Middle America can’t handle the good shit. And say what you will about Panda Express, but at least the fried rice is seasoned there.

Soleil Ho is a Minneapolis-based writer and podcaster, who is moving to California next year to be the dining critic at the San Francisco Chronicle. Katie Cannon is a Minneapolis-based photographer. Editor: Hillary Dixler Canavan

Eater.com

The freshest news from the food world every day

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2018/12/7/18130579/andrew-zimmern-lucky-cricket-controversy-visit