Wong's King/Martin Yan extravaganza

Last night was the big event. I am going to have a hard time describing the entirety of the spectacle, so I won't. Let it be known that I had a blast.

The evening started with the room slowly filling with guests. A deluge of wine and beer sprung from the hands of the teeming waitstaff, drowning frowns and warming the crinkled, grinning brows of my table-mates. Table 84. Probably the second worst table in the house, pushed far back into the corner, the underpowered P.A. system straining to reach it; the waitstaff's buzzing workstation close enough to drown the words determined enough to make it back to us. Ah well, the company was good. Jesse and Katelyn at my side, a few happy, older russian folk adjacent, a good friend of the Wong family to my right, and a couple of Japanese Americans beyond him. Everyone was curious and eager. Often if someone had a query, another had an answer, "what is this?" "It's slices of stuffed lotus root." "Oh, I thought it was Mortadella! hahaha!"



I spent some effort fighting off the eager waiter, Ricki, from pouring me more wine, bringing me more beer. He eventually conceded, moved on to Katelyn, and upped his game. Glass after glass, healthy in volume, conjured in front of her. Merriment ensued. Jesse and I did not escape the influence of Bacchus unscathed either, our cheeks pinked by the tasty Yanjing Beer


Lions danced through the too-crowded room, the confinement allowing only basic techniques and acrobatics, which is a shame.

Martin Yan, up on a stage, behind a large work surface, hushed the crowed by clattering off a staccato proto-beat on an overturned wok with his Chinese cleaver. This went on for a bit. And then it continued for a moment longer. Finally he finished his clanky song and launched into his polished oration, a showman through and through. Our table caught every fourth word. But the message was clear: Buy my books! Buy my Yan Can Cook™ branded Chinese cleaver! Give me your money!

This briefly upset me.

But then I realized that he is here not out of the kindness of his heart, but because he is a working man and this is his job. I stopped caring and enjoyed the infomercial. I really enjoyed it because it was more or less entirely a demo on knife skills. He peeled tomatoes, turning the long, thin ribbon into a rose. He relaxed a chicken by making it do the jitterbug, then rendered it into it's component parts in eighteen seconds(!). He made fans, and blossoms, and ribbons, and waves, and curls out of various mundane veggies. He flipped paper thin slices of meat through the air, smacking them down to the cutting board in one swift move. He flirted with elderly ladies, and awarded prizes to audience members for knowing obscure chinese vegetables. The man is charming and charismatic.



Then the food came. Nine courses, streaming out out of the kitchen to feed hundreds of guests. What a feast.

Note: I don't have the menu list in front of me right now, I will fill in the names of these dishes and their ingredients later










The room was raucous and boozy. Nearly every table swaying with it's drunken diners, lilting and crying out in glee. What a night. I am jealous of my past self, for though the memories are grand, the tastes are now only ghosts teasing the back of my tongue.



Song of the Day: Diggin' a Watery Grave, Morcheeba