By now, most Americans recognize that Westernized basics like chop suey and General Tso’s are compromised simulacra of authentic Chinese food. And so, in recent years, cosmopolitan foodies have sought out everything from steamy Cantonese dim sum to smoked Peking duck to the mouth-numbing Sichuanese hot pot. “But what about Yunnan?” Simone Tong, the thirty-five-year-old Singaporean-Chinese chef and proprietor of Little Tong, asked. Her discoveries in the mountainous southwestern province were delicious enough to make her both laugh and cry.
Alas, she said, the astonishingly diverse culinary traditions of the region were “too numerous to fit into a single restaurant.” Instead of an exhaustive survey, Tong has created a loving and eclectic ode. Begin with the ghost chicken, traditionally made with black-skinned bantams that are slaughtered to mourn the dead by the ethnic minority Dai. Recently, at Little Tong, the chicken was hand-pulled, the skin was dispensed with, and mayonnaise was added to the dressing of pickled red onions, chili, and cilantro. The interpretation does not exactly resemble what the Dai had in mind, but the sweet-spicy kick, artfully subdued by the creamy mayo, is hard to resist, even by authenticity hard-liners.
Didn’t think the Chinese dabbled in cheese? Try the Dali Street Taters, inspired by the popular goat-cheese-curd snack rubin, which has a texture similar to mozzarella’s. The main event here is the mixian, or rice noodle, which ranges from firm to bouncy to slippery, depending on its temperature. There are only four styles on the menu, and some try to accomplish too much. The ambitious mala dan dan mixian, for example, is an overwrought hybrid—the piquant pungency of ya cai, fermented mustard leaves native to Sichuan, overwhelms both the mixian and the ground pork.
But the Grandma chicken mixian—inspired by Tong’s sojourn to Lijiang, where the young chef was served some of the greatest noodles of her life—is T.L.C. at its finest. Aromatic chicken broth with pickled beets and cauliflower, chicken confit, and sesame-garlic oil becomes even more comforting when a supple egg, marbled with Pu’er tea and soy sauce, is piled on top. On a recent Friday, two foodies in their thirties traced the map of Yunnan on their phones between bouts of slurping. When one of them wondered aloud why it had taken him so long to discover mixian, the congenial waitress, who had just arrived, delivered more tea eggs and a gentle, knowing smile, as if to say, “Don’t you know? The more you eat, the greater your ignorance grows.” (Noodles $15.) ♦