Fish-o-Copter

Fish-o-Copter
Originally uploaded by thegreatplotnik.

It takes a while for The Great Plotnik and The Great Ducknik to find a parking place in Chi-nik-town within walking distance of Jai Yun Restaurant on Upper Pacific Street, but eventually one appears.

"Is this where we're going?" Plotnik asks. The dingy restaurant on the dingy street do not appear all that inviting. Inside there is only one other couple, sitting in the corner waiting for their food to arrive. No music, no service, no ceremony. Jai Yun is listed as one of the best restaurants in Saint Plotniko, but Plotnik has a few doubts.

Unbeknownst to him, however, The Great Plotnik Birthday Feast has already begun. The famous chef from Nanjing is already at work. The moment Plot and Duck sit down, the waiter brings four tiny courses to the table, each with maybe eight chopsticks worth of food.

"Tofu," he says, pointing to one, "smoked fish," "cucumber" and "jellyfish."

The waiter walks away, and Plotnik picks some jellyfish off the plate. It is succulently sweet, a little crunchy, filled with fresh ginger.

"Mmmm," he says to Ducknik, "wait 'til you taste this one."

"Oooh, this smoked fish is amazing," says Duck. The small chunks explode with flavor, not too smoky, not fishy, with maybe the texture of a piece of duck who liked water more than land. The tofu is every bit as good -- it is meant to look like slices of duck, even with a kind of skin on the outside, except it tastes of an herbal infusion -- is that fennel?

The cucumbers, oh man, sliced extremely thin, piled in a cone with lots of sesame, in the same family as Thai sweet cucumbers, but not so cloyingly sweet. The first four dishes are gone in a heartbeat, each one better than the last.

Plotnik and Ducknik lay their chopsticks on their plate, and the chef's wife brings more Tsing Tao Beer. The teenage waiter in the rock and roll t-shirt arrives with nine more courses.

By now, a party of eleven, celebrating a 30th birthday, has arrived in the restaurant. Everyone is getting the same food at the same time, and the moans of pleasure from the table of eleven match those coming from Plotnik and Ducknik.

Plotnik's greedy birthday eyes land upon some new kind of tofu, but dark and spongy and delicious, almost like bread soaked in dark gravy; a pile of very thinly sliced lotus with ginger and some mysteriously exotic thingamabobby; a pile of green pickled radish topped with fiery chili sauce; a plate of spinach with tiny flecks of tofu and shiitake mushroom; the most succulent Chinese cabbage in an herbal vinaigrette; thin slices of beef with azuki beans; sections of pork -- hoof? trotter?; something gluey, and another dish that has escaped into memory.

These are consumed down to the last milliscallion, and removed from the table. More beer.

Ducknik and Plotnik are already filled. Now the heavy artillery begins firing.

The teenage waiter is bored out of his mind. As he sets each tiny dish on the table he pronounces its name, but he stopped caring long ago and his accent is very thick, so from here on out, Plot and Duck are guessing.

All the while, his father in the kitchen is turning out these astounding dishes that arrive no more than ten seconds after the grand old man spills them from his wok onto the plates. He is famous for being a one man shop, without even a dishwasher because he has been unable to find anyone as meticulous as he is.

Abalone comes next -- not thick, stringy, tasteless abalone, but thin, pounded, delectable abalone, mixed with eggs and herbs -- oh man, this is maybe the best dish of the night. You can tell it lived in the sea, or maybe in a condo next door to the sea, but it doesn't taste of the sea -- well, yes it does. Kinda. Sorta. They could cancel the rest of the dinner, and just bring plate after plate of abalone, and Plotnik would go home feeling like King Plot I.

But then he wouldn't get the shrimp and gingko, with the shrimp cooked so fast they've shriveled into curlicues, so when Plotnik pops them into his mouth the taste jumps out in layers -- first the garlic, then a second later the ginger, and then the shrimp, still burning hot. It's like watching a good movie -- beginning, middle and end.

And he wouldn't want to have missed the Chinese vegetable stir fry.

And the mushroom stir fry.

And the (unrecognizable name) -- vegetable.

And the (unrecognizable name) - fish.

And the tiny strips of bacon with bitter melon (not all that different than honeydew and prosciutto -- proving Marco Polo brought home more than just pasta).

And the (unrecognizable name)- sweet thing with the hot, squishy, winter melon and a little, spicy (unrecognizable thing - vegetable?).

And several more courses that have receded into memory, preceding the tour de force:

The Fish O Copter.

Somehow the chef has fashioned a fish into an airplane, with fins for wings and cherries for eyes. The whole thing has been deep fried and finished in a sweet sauce so you can eat the entire animal, and be sure you know what heaven tastes like. The table of eleven gets one too, only three times bigger. They also get a smoked pork hock, which brings up the other interesting thing about Jai Yun -- you don't order food, you only tell the chef how much you want to spend per person, and he brings you the corresponding amount of food.

Obviously, the table of eleven spent at least one pork hock more than Plotnik and Ducknik.

Finally: eggplant slices.

"I can't possibly eat any more," Ducknik says. Plotnik is groaning.

On cue, the waitress brings the final course: the check.

That's it. No ceremony. No conversation. Food. Beer. Check. Thank you, and good night.

One more interesting thing: a plain table with absolutely no spices, no salt, no pepper, no sauces, nothing. 28 courses of food, which stand entirely on their own taste merit. You can't add anything to them, because there's nothing to add.

Chopsticks. A pot of tea. That's it for table decor.

Birthday Cake? You've got to be kidding.