7/10/06:

Greetings…

If you’ve read the staff page, you’ll know about your conscientious editor who hopes, with the help of the professor and my assistant and hundreds of others who wish to remain anonymous, to unravel the life and works of Chef Wang Jiao.   Someday this site will be chock-a-block with his recipes, photos, tips, thoughts, and advanced cooking techniques.  To bring this about won’t be a cake walk.

Yesterday I found myself at the professor’s house raising my trembling hands towards his scrawny neck, hoping to wring some translation out of him, when he calmly withdrew a few pages from his top drawer.

“When’s the last time you had your blood pressure checked?” the old duffer said, with what anyone could see was an insincere concern.  “You’re red as a berry!”

7/25/06:

Your editor and lovely wife will go to Thailand for 3 weeks, looking for Chef Wang Jiao.  This trip may be folly, but the compulsion to follow up on an anonymous tip about Wang working in Bangkok proved uncontrollable.  The tip came through Cynthia, who went out dancing with her girlfriends, and overheard the nightclub’s busboy—whom she described as “really cute, mostly oriental”—say his uncle knew someone who knew someone named Wang who was the toast of Bangkok, though Cynthia’s version was more to the tune of “big chef dude over there.”  I waffled about whether to follow up on this rumor, but was moved to action when Cynthia—ever the inspiring muse—dared me to.

The internet produced one juicy tidbit: the Bangkok Post reporting that the Prime Minister dined on Peking Duck, “his recent culinary obsession since a new Chinese Chef took over the helm at the Oriental.”

8/26/06:

Your disappointed editor has just returned to Florida, having failed to find the person, Chef Jiao Wang, in Bangkok as hoped. To underscore our disappointment, we are greeted by Hurricane Ernesto, glowering at the folks in the Caribbean, and poised to wreak havoc on the already storm-weary citizens of the Gulf coast. But soldier on we must, as we did in Thailand when encountering dead-ends and misinformation, mixed with an exciting piece of the puzzle now and then. Bangkok is almost as stingy with its news of Chef Wang as Old Professor Arfers is with his scraps of translation.

Those of you who have been to Bangkok know its dystopian atmosphere--it's the opening scene of Blade Runner; it's Shanghai, 1930, with the finest and lowest humanity has on offer; a steaming, soggy confusion where a feller could get in trouble in any number of ways. Bangkok is lurid, dense, and dirty, jammed with hawkers, hookers, food carts, taxis, expensive restaurants and millionaires to patronize them; it smells of diesel, sewage, garlic and lemon grass and the transvestites are as beautiful as the gold temples, the scuttling, saffron-clad monks, and glittering skyscrapers. Sikhs, women in burkhas, Africans, Chinese, Yanks, Germans and Brits have come to the party, all perspiring and jostling in the sodden carnival of the streets. And the food of Thailand--well, I'm a sinophile as you know, but if that mistress ever jilts me, I'd be first in line at the Phad Kee Mao cart. Her cuisine is cheap, but luxurious in flavor, color, oil, lime and fire. It is rich with fragrant sauces. You have to love a food audacious enough to use fish sauce and fermented shrimp as major ingredients. Still, the country ain't for everybody. It's for scoundrels and poets and pederasts; it's for entrepreneurs, backpackers and lonely men. It's for Asian food fanatics--there exists in Bangkok more food carts and cafes per capita than possibly any other city in the world--and passionate chefs unable to stop their wandering...

As far as the latter is concerned, here's what happened in our search for Mr. Wang. Upon arrival, I spent the day in the libraries and English newspaper archives, searching for Wang's name, a tedious project with no results. When we followed up in person on the tip from the Bangkok post about a Chinese chef at the Oriental hotel, they informed us he'd moved on to a place in Bangkok's Chinatown over two years ago. When I asked why he left, the Thai manager, Mr. Phimmepone, dissembled uncomfortably, and finally said, "He not happy!" He went to work at the Jade Pagoda, the man thought, or possibly the Imperial Garden. Just as we were about to leave, the manager called us back. I nearly choked on the butter cookie I'd filched from the lobby tea cart. Could this be a break in the case? Phimmepone said he thought he had a photo of Wang--maybe--and he ran away to look. My bride passed me another cookie, but now I was too excited to eat. "Calm down," she said, "you're soaking your shirt with sweat!"

The manager reappeared 10 minutes later, obviously exhausted by the search, and with great pride handed me this picture:

This gives you some idea what we're up against in our search for the vaporous Wang Jiao--I will treasure this mutilated photo forever, of course, but the catsup stains and chemical burns will be a reminder of why I should give up this folly and build model ships or sell real estate.

Back on the street, our search for Wang's employer wasn't going to go much easier. As you know, the Chinese are famous for their food, not their originality in naming restaurants-- There might be a hundred Imperial Gardens and Jade Palaces in Van Nuys, California, let alone Bangkok's Chinatown. The task of finding him was made even more daunting by the fact that, as you see in the photo on the right, Chinatown's signs are not often translated in English, but rather hail in Thai and Chinese (Where's the old professor when you need him?) After hiring a translator, and spending 6 sweat-soaked hours scouring the enclave, we finally found the restaurant--where one brilliant chef named Wang Jiao worked--but not anymore. He left a year ago, according to our jolly restaurant owner, because of a "family emergency." Unfortunately, they didn't know where that family was. However mysterious, he was beloved by his boss and co-workers, especially for his roast duck, the recipe for which I'm going to gouge out of G.M Arfers, so help me.

At that point, the trail went cold. In the meantime, I'll be paying a visit to the colonel, taking with me a bottle of his favorite cognac, now that he's back from Orlando with the grand rugrats. Surely he's refreshed and sated with his little ones, and we can get on with the business at hand.

9/12/06

I tried a new strategy with old professor Arfers yesterday.  Instead of my usual harangue, I went hat in hand, begging, more or less--if the austere old bugger had worn a ring, I would have kissed it--At first he looked skeptical.  "Do you want to borrow money?" he asked.  But my humility finally won him over, for the fellow positively oozed charm and generosity, and proceeded to map out the entirety of Wang Jiao's food writing.  Now we are getting somewhere; this is the most important information we've yet received concerning our master chef.  "Don't expect many recipes for tangerine flavored bear paw, or peaches stuffed with duck meat," Arfers told me.   After spending the weekend looking it all over, he said, the thing that struck him was that Wang disdained any form of elitism or snobbery.  Arfers believes this attitude derives from Wang's painful memories of an aristocratic childhood, his communist education, and a general proletarian take on life.

The professor told me the world should not expect any Imperial cuisine from Wang--if you read his opus on dumplings, for example--finally appearing on this site today--you'll see how devoted the chef is to "the people's food," the cuisine of the street and field.  When all the translation is complete, Arfers said, we'd understand Wang Jiao's philosophy: that the true genius of Chinese food will be found in the vast variety of everyday victuals, the dumplings, buns and stir-fries--not the Lemon lobsters surrounded by carrot flowers and radish carvings of the Eight Immortals. These are but window dressing, glossy artifice, chefs showing off...

He slid across the coffee table a slip of paper on which he'd translated. A quote from our master chef: "..the people's food is the SOURCE: everything else is layers of silk brocade covering the true delights of our common, ancient heritage.  Focus on essentials, the flavor, the smell, the poetry in a simple, pure thing..." I took this epigram as evidence that indeed, one could be a master chef without indulging in high falutin pretense and Imperial Cuisine...

9/26/06

I got old Arfers a little tipsy on bai jiu last night and after he grudgingly handed over Wang's freshly translated recipe for Kung Pao Chicken, he suddenly rambled on about what more to expect from our Master Chef's cache of writing.

Following up on what he'd revealed earlier about Wang's plebian bent, he said we can expect writings on dim sum, reviews of restaurants Wang has been to, rhapsodies on Street food, recipes and notes on Thai food--yet another indication that Wang Jiao has lived in the "Land of Smiles."
The professor told me we'd hear Wang hold forth on the philosophy of cooking Chinese food, and discussions of Ingredients and tools. When I asked for a timetable for these translations, Arfers steadied himself belligerently, and huffed that he was far too old and underpaid to adhere to a schedule. On either point, I couldn't argue.

Then, a kind of cloud fell over the professor when he said that Wang's journal detailed the love of Wang's life, a woman named Fan Lan Qiong. I pounced on this tantalizing thread, dying to know more, but as soon as he said her name, old Arfers put his face in his hands to muffle a sob--as if Qiong was the long lost love of his life. I couldn't console the man, nor would he say another word on any subject, so I finally snatched what was left of the bottle of bai jiu and went home.

10/15/06

Here at the office, we are currently undergoing a minor crisis. Cynthia has accused me of sexual harassment because, she says, I'm always staring at her when she puts away files in the WXYZ drawer. This, as you may have guessed, is the lowest drawer, and she claims I'm sneaking peaks at her nether regions which are rumored to be somewhat visible owing to her very short skirts. I wouldn't know, I swear. Do I have time for such lowly enterprises, when Wang is on the loose out there somewhere, unheralded and uncomforted? I am a professional, for god's sake. Anyway, she has held off contacting the labor board, pending what she calls a "probation period," wherein I must modify my behavior, and can only look at her when she's filing A through V. For the sake of office harmony, I'm going along with this without protest.

Far more important is an exciting item I received from Arfers', following his revelation that Wang has a lost love, one of life-changing importance to our heroic Chef. He belatedly delivered--as is every piece of translation belated from this old duffer--in English, the inscriptions on the back of an old photo found in Wang's belongings. It reads: "My sweet flower, eating with her usual gusto, at age four." The colonel has already said Wang's true love was named Fan Lan Qiong, and since this photo is the only picture in the chef's bag depicting a girl acquaintance, we must conclude that the "sweet flower" referred to is one and the same. We can only speculate that the Chef found this photo adorable in every way except one: Fan Lan Qiong's table companion, presumably her mother or auntie, is ferociously blowing her nose. Ms. Linkletter, ever the cynic, looked at the picture and said, "Her old man probably sold her into slavery, this is the farewell party, and her mom's crying!"

12/1/06

The way this morning started, I would have never guessed what good news was in the offing; As I poured my first cup of Bo Lei Cha I could tell Cynthia had something on her mind; she was twirling her hair with her finger, staring at me, shaking her head.

"What?" I said.

I was prepared to bathe in some sort of compliment, but Cynthia said, "I hate that picture of me you're using on the staff page. It makes my skin look shiny."

She probably wanted me to replace it with one of the dozen or so others I keep in my drawer.   I pointed out that we were involved in a humanitarian effort, one which required selfless dedication for the Greater Good, and egos should best be set aside.

"Fine," she said, suddenly producing a manila envelope and moving toward the shredder.  I could just barely make out our translator's return address on the package.  I lurched at her, there was some unavoidable wrestling about, but Cynthia's long arms and strong legs ruled the day, and she emerged from the fray clutching the envelope out of my reach.  I knew blackmail when I saw it.  I suddenly realized this was an elaborate ploy, and had nothing to do with the photo, which is lovely, obviously.

Pulling out my wallet I said, "Did I mention the Christmas bonus?" I waved a twenty dollar bill like a flag of surrender. That was it. She gave me her most intelligent smile, snapped the bill out of my hand, and handed over the envelope.

For once I was pleased Arfers didn't read the web site. Otherwise, I'd have to give him a Christmas bonus too.

So, now the best of news: in the contested envelope was the latest translated work by our missing chef, Wang Jiao: judging by its formal tone, it appears to be a chapter of a book, or a lecture to students in a culinary class, concerning the history of Chinese food in America.  When I called Professor Arfers to ask for details, he demurred, as usual, and wouldn't say. 

At any rate I gave the essay its own button, upper left…

3/12/07

My apologies for such a long interval since our last entry here; to be honest, it has taken that long to recover from the holidays.

First, the company Christmas party was, to use my wife's phrase, "an unmitigated disaster." Arfers showed Cynthia a Chinese drinking game, in which she naturally lost every round, and this inspired her to insist that I dance. I have no recollection of the evening, having also lost every round, but when the rosy fingers of dawn arrived, my wife was not speaking to me. She noted I hadn't danced with her for fifteen years, and suddenly I'm "boogying the night away with what's-her-name."

The final straw--as far as domestic harmony goes--came when in my bride's presence, Cynthia said I was the best dirty dancer she'd ever rubbed up against.

To cap the calamity, Arfers announced he was going on a cruise; not a short jaunt to the Caribbean, as any other self-respecting translator would have planned, but 'round the world, and despite his promises of working on translations "betwixt the buffets and Casino Nights," I knew we'd not see another Wang tidbit till he got back months from now, if then.

So, dear friends, we at Whereischefwang.com have made a decision: we will give the web site and its two "employees" a rest. Cynthia took the layoff well; she wants to try her hand at message therapy, but looks forward to returning because, as she joked, "I get paid and don't have to do a thing!"

The site will resume at a future date--whenever Arfers returns for malaria treatments, or to receive an undeserved honorary degree, or when he misses my groveling...

8/1/07

Here's a story which, though I'm ashamed of certain details, has a happy ending. (You may want to read the previous entry, to familiarize yourself with our disastrous Christmas party):

A few days ago, while I sat brooding upon our translator, Arfers, and his paltry output, my brother-in-law stopped by. He is a Florida lawyer in a Dewey, Screwim & Howe-type law-firm. When I mentioned Arfers' underwhelming performance, he suggested a vaguely threatening letter from himself, "my attorney" urging the old geezer "to step up" as promised. It backfired. After "my attorney" faxed said letter to his cruise ship, we received this response:

I can't honestly answer for the alleged indiscretions hinted at by the professor; as I've said, I have no memory of the Christmas party. Besides, nothing matters except the fine work we are doing here at whereischefwang.com. The packet Arfers mentioned contained a mind-boggling five recipes from our absent chef! An all-time record from the professor, among them two classics known to American Chinese restaurants, Chow Mein (chao mian) and Dry Fried String Beans (gan bian si ji dou). Most striking is the amount of detail Wang Jiao gives to his recipes: these are intended for enthusiasts who will take the time to make the dish in a characteristically Chinese way. Such an approach flies in the face of the current trends, which might be described as: fusion in the restaurant, convenience in the home kitchen. Chef Wang expects to promote an unsullied Chinese-ness, so that the traditional cuisine can be experienced in all its glory. For Wang's view of such matters see his "Chinese Food in America."

June 21, 2008

We have a new policy here at whereischefwang.com, instituted a few minutes ago, that I will not apologize for the enormous chronological gaps in our "NOTES FROM YOUR EDITOR." Suffice it to say, a rich uncle has failed to die. We are forced to remain at our day jobs, underpaid and overworked, leaving precious time for our hero, Chef Wang. And leaving no time to study Chinese, which makes our reliance on the unreliable Arfers complete. Nevertheless, a recipe for the Dim Sum classic, Fun Gwor has been added, coming in "over the transom," so to speak, from the old professor.

In the meantime, an anonymous tip from a reader is tantalizing. It claims, with details too specific to be ingored, that a certain Wang has been spotted working at a dumpling shop in the Lower East Side of New York City. A half dozen or more of these wonderful joints exist in Manhattan, and in Flushing, so the prospect is promising. Since a vacation looms before us like a vision of paradise, I plan on using the time to follow up on the tip. Soon, we will all know the outcome of this latest quest.

August 10, 2008

The chinese have a saying:

Misfortunes come in bunches but depart one at a time.

5000 years of wisdom is never wrong, and so it is here at whereischefwang.com. Slowly our many misfortunes--being unable to locate Wang Jiao, the saviour of traditional Chinese cuisine; our translator's dilatory translation efforts; Cynthia's ridiculous and completely unfounded remark, in the presence of my wife, about our dirty dancing together at the Christmas party; my shyster's ill-begotten letter to Arfers, who promptly threatened a lawsuit--all these have drifted away in the sands of time or I've groveled enough to make them go away...

I hoped, therefore, that our trip to New York would herald a new dawn, and we'd have a lead on our chef, if not stumble on the man himself. (You may recall, one of our loyal readers claimed Chef Wang was currently working in the Lower East Side, making dumplings). I visited these places and asked, " Xiaojie...Qing wen, ni zhi dao Wang Jiao zhu chu ma? "( Miss, excuse me, do you know a chef Wang Jiao?) The following example, from Prosperity Dumpling, pretty much sums up the way it went:
Play Movie

Later in the day, after my camera batteries went dead, I asked the question about Chef Wang once again. He responded to my bumbling Chinese in a shout, as if I were hard of hearing.  "Sure, everybody know Chef Wang!  He work everyplace here!  Very good, but never stay!"

At least I had confirmation that he has indeed worked in the Big Apple. When I bought 10 pork and vegetable dumplings, and pressed the man for details, his English collapsed into a coy blend of Cantonese, Manarin and Brooklynese of which I was meant to understand very little.  Finally I did glean the information that he'd been here as recently as six months ago, but no one he knew had seen him since.

I bought another 20 dumplings, and begged: Can you tell me anything, where he lived, what he looked like, where he went?

"Maybe jail!" he laughed, and scooped the fried guo tie off the large, flat bottomed pan.

Later that day, I understood.  Googling Wang's name, I found a news item which was eerily appropriate considering the dumpling man's remark--but did the reporters or police have the name wrong?

From the Daily Record of Scotland:

Disgruntled chef challenged boss to meat cleaver duel

Apr 25 2008 By Irina Nelson

A CRAZED Chinese chef challenged the boss who had just sacked him to a duel - with meat cleavers.

Xian Ming Wang grabbed the knives after arguing with takeway owner Tat Chung Cheung over a work permit.

Wang placed a cleaver on the counter of the busy shop and screamed: "One for me and one for you." He then vowed to chop Mr Cheung up, adding: "I have already chopped up a man - and I will do the same to you."

Wang...was jailed for seven months at Dumbarton Sheriff Court yesterday.

Read the original article...

I called the fine folks in Scotland, and confirmed the cleaver- wielding cook was NOT our missing chef.

I’m sorry to say, more awkward questions in more of New York’s Dumpling shops yielded similar, if less colorful, dead ends.  The flesh and blood Wang Jiao remains, as always,  just out of reach.

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