Stir Friday Redux

Though it was well received by Master, I wasn't thrilled with the yu choy sum stir fry. I think it was those bitty noodles. Seeking something cheap, quick, and satisfying to prepare for dinner, I hit the local Asian market. The gai-lan looked great, and inspired me to recreate the dish Master ordered each time we'd gone out for Chinese food. If he loves chicken and broccoli, why not serve up chicken and Chinese broccoli? I admit that the prospect of introducing another person to gai-lan, a cultivar of the more assertive and divisive rapini, is always exciting. Too few seem to know the joys of this wonderful vegetable. Though I can't imagine anyone not liking gai-lan, especially when only its crisp, sweet stalks are used, the pleasantly bitter leaves and flower heads reserved for another dish, I hedged my bets by including some broccoli florets in the stir fry. Far from being brassica "overkill," the cruciferous cousins complemented one another beautifully. The chicken breast, marinated well in advance with xiaoxing wine, garlic, ginger, soy sauce, sugar, cornstarch and dark sesame oil, was tender and flavorful. I feel like I'm finally mastering the "tricks" of a successful stir fry, such as preparing the components separately, timing the rice, and thickening the sauce with a cornstarch slurry. They may be little things, but they make a substantial difference. I was very happy with the results. More importantly, Master loved the dish.

As I was stocking up on pantry essentials, I'd noticed that fresh yardlong beans were also available. Why not strike while the wok was hot, so to speak, and offer a second dinner item? But could I ever hope to pull off a "dry fry" without dou ban jiang, the fiery bean-and-chili paste at the heart and soul of this Sichuan favorite? I decided that the answer was an emphatic "no" and, knowing that I would quite literally be risking my hide by defying Master's strict no-chillies mandate, added the sauce to my cart. Brazen fool that I am, desperate yet emboldened by the tyranny of timid taste buds, I was convinced that I could sneak just enough of this essential ingredient into the meal to satisfy my desire for authenticity without inflaming Master's tongue - and displeasure. It would be a calculated risk, calling for the tiniest measuring spoon. Did I even own a 1/8 teaspoon?

Since I would be preparing the meal at Master's place, I had to smuggle the bottle of dou ban jiang into his kitchen without arousing suspicion. Before I'd even taken off my hat and gloves, I hid it in the fridge's frostiest recesses until it was needed. Fortunately, Master was elsewhere at the critical moment when the wee dollop of chili paste hit the searing surface of the wok. Even the infinitesimal amount I added was enough to send up potentially deal-breaking wafts of stinging, spicy smoke. Tamed by the heat and by the synergic powers of fried ginger, garlic and scallions, it was all but undetectable in the finished dish. If Master noticed the scintilla of heat, he didn't say anything. I should be grateful that he doesn't read my ramblings here, as there would no doubt be painful consequences for such bold disregard of his orders. No, the problem turned out to be not the dou ban jiang but the long beans themselves. Though I'd given them ample dry-fry time in which to pucker, and I'd exactingly cut them into uniform 2" pieces, they came to the table a little underdone. Again, Master did not complain. Long beans were as new to him as gai-lan. But it is possible that the wok was not hot enough during the dry frying. I'm still adapting to its touchy electric controls - as the numerous minor burns on my hands will attest.