Dim Sum Sunday was long over due, so it was time for it at Phoenix in Chinatown, home to arguably the best mini-plate food cart derby in town. A charming little lady, who we came to so affectionally call the “Dim Sum Lady”, dazzled us with a collection of plates filled with parts of animals many people in this country seem to think as garbage...
We beckoned her over to see if she had any chicken feet, a dim sum staple for us.
"No. Later." Polite, through a distinct Chinese accent. Fortunately, we had enough food in front of us to tie us over for a little while longer.
On her second pass, she wheeled by some egg tarts yellow like the sun, and dumplings which we had already dabbled in earlier. No feet.
"I know. Chicken feet. Later." Maybe she could intuit our waning patience, but it was probably the plates now almost empty with little more than puddles of garlic and green chili sauce and the paper tablecloth speckled with hot chili oil and sauce stains that indicated to her the fervor of our eating endeavor.
The third time is the charm, so they say. A final pass:
"Chicken feet! I know you want. More?"
The more didn't mean more chicken feet, as one small plate was good for two. She was implying she had the good stuff, the stuff the potsticker-loyalists don’t know about because they taste with their eyes and preconceptions instead of their palletes. Pandora’s Box was opened, as a flurry of edible evils was unloaded from her cart of mini bamboo steamers and surprises hidden under dainty aluminum lids. One by one they came.
"You like?"
"Yes. We'll take that. And that too. Thank you!"
Indeed. Thank you, Dim Sum Lady.
