Richard Howe | Chinese, If You Please

Chinese, If You Please

January 29, 2026 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Chinese, If You Please

By Leo Racicot

Chinese food never struck my uneducated palate as being exotic because from as far back as I can remember, the family liked to feast downtown at Chin Lee’s restaurant. (Unfortunately, these were unenlightened times and the place was referred to as “The Chink’s” by everyone in Lowell. To this day, I’ll hear fellow bus passengers saying, “Remember when The Chink’s was here in this stretch?” “This stretch” was the block between Bridge and John Streets. Lowell’s two five-and-dimes (Woolworth’s and Kresge’s) were in that block, as was the Union National Bank and next to that, Fanny Farmer’s Candy Shop. If I found Chin Lee exotic in any way, it was due to the fact that, in order to get to it, you had to ascend a flight of stairs; it was located on the second floor above the bank. I’d never seen a restaurant on an upper floor. There was something nicely secretive about it. Ironically, for a kid who turned his nose up at steak and a baked potato at home, I loved Chinese food — put a heaping plate of Chow Mein, with its mountain of crunchy noodles underneath in front of me and I was in my glory. I guess I regarded it as ‘fun food’. Years later, when I lived in Cambridge, and downtown Boston was a subway ride away, you could find me dining at a place in Chinatown called Buddha’s Delight, which was also on a second floor of an old Beach Street building and I know that one of the reasons I liked it is that its second-floor aerie reminded me of Chin Lee’s.

When Aunt Marie got her driver’s license and bought her Rambler, she liked to head the family out-of-town to area Chinese restaurants. Some of these were Cathay Garden on Route 110. Cathay’s sign was made in the shape of a pagoda and was considered “the fancy Chinese restaurant”. They served the best Peking Ravioli I ever had. I’ve been searching high-and-low all these years to find that exact flavor of ravioli Cathay made but never have. Other Chinese restaurants we’d hit were The Hong Kong (on Chelmsford Street), Tewksbury’s Jade East and The Lo Kai in Dracut. Jade East and Lo Kai are still in operation. What I liked most about Chinese cuisine was the hodge-podge of colors and tastes its many dishes offered. I did realize most of what I was eating wasn’t considered authentic Chinese, that is to say, the kind of food cooked and served in China. It wasn’t until my Cambridge Library friend, Chi-Shiang, introduced me to “real” Chinese food in the early 2000s that I was bowled over with the freshness and limitless variety of authentic Chinese meals. He took me to explore the many Chinese eateries Harvard Square had at that time. Chi-Shiang so savored whatever he was eating that he’d make loud smacking sounds with his mouth. At first, I found this annoying but as time went on, I found myself smacking right along with him. Chi-Shiang, disenchanted with library work and then teaching and American ways, went back to his native Taiwan and decided, at a late age in life, to study medicine, and succeeded. Thanks to the wonders of email, this fine, gentle, learned man and I are still in touch, and I am so thankful that our paths crossed. He made me brave, egging me on to try foods I would never have thought to put in my mouth. One time, when confronted with snake meat, and not recognizing it, I said, “What’s this??” Chi-Shiang snapped, rather militarily, I might add, “Leo. Just eat it!” It was surprisingly good.

Of course, I, and all of us fans of Boston’s WGBH, were able to watch, if not eat, real Chinese food being prepared by Channel 2’s Joyce Chen who had her own show, Joyce Chen Cooks, which Joe and I never missed, along with shows like The French Chef with Julia Child and Making Things Grow with Thalassa Cruso (whom my mother insisted was a man). Joyce was a real character, and would interject advice as she cooked saying things like, “If you have a date coming over, omit scallion” or “If you have party, make more…” She also a lot in her culinary haste would pick up a burning hot pan without thinking and found a dozen creative ways to express the word, “Ouch”. Joe and I couldn’t understand why these faux pas weren’t edited out but remember — this was live television. Julia’s shows in which she’d fumble the ball, so to speak, are now legendary. Who hasn’t heard of the episode where she dropped a potato pancake on the floor, lustily scooped it up, tossed it straight back into the pan saying, “And if you drop something, pick it up. If you’re alone in the kitchen, who’s going to see?” I look back so fondly on these pioneers of educational television. Without them, so many Americans would never have known how to roast a Peking duck or re-pot a tired hydrangea.

Little Hong Kong in Boston’s Chinatown became a favorite place. It was the best little restaurant in Chinatown, a hole-in-the-ground; if you blinked, you’d miss it. If you didn’t know it was there (it was well-hidden below street level0, you were out of luck because the food was out-of-this-world. Surprising things happened there whenever I went in. One time, a couple (an older woman and her boy toy) tried to pick me up, insisting I looked like the young Marc Chagall. This ploy at seduction didn’t work because all I wanted on that cold winter night was my Egg Foo Young (no gravy) and nothing more. Another time, I walked in just as a little girl was being serenaded by her family and surrounding waiters with Happy Birthday so I joined in the serenading. As they and I were the only people there, they invited me to their table where I was given a plate and chopsticks and encouraged to dig in. A third time, I was eating when a coterie of gals bubbled in. Among them was an old pal from my O’Leary Library days, Maggie Calhoun. There’d been bad blood between us since last we were together but hot tea, Chinese pastries and shared laughter healed that and we parted friends again.

I love how delicate and non-invasive Asian pastries are, nothing like the sickly-sweet confections found in American bakeries and restaurants. Of course, the danger with this is that, as in the old Lay’s Potato Chips commercials, “Bet you can’t eat just one!” The myth we grew up hearing: “Eat Chinese food and an hour later, you’re hungry again” didn’t apply to that serendipitous gathering.

As the gut ages, some foods that I used to have no problem with fight their way back. I have to avoid my beloved Crab Rangoon, for example; I know my tired intestines will have a tough time digesting them. And whenever Joe and I eat at the corner Asian place, happily forgetting the high MSG content in the dishes we’ve ordered, we’re fine until the salt-heavy seasoning enters our bodies. That’s when our very animated chats slow to a near-halt from the MSG coma we find ourselves in. I call this “taking a trip to La-La Land” followed by the need to go home and take an immediate nap.

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