It’s almost cliché, right? In a city filled with five million things to eat, I’m going back to a classic for the first edition of “best thing I ate this week.” How very New York of me.

I ate the spicy cumin lamb noodles from Xian Famous Foods (hereby shortened to XFF) approximately 2 hours ago and my brain is still trying to compute why and how they’re so good. I’m drawn to certain dishes for different reasons but one major reason is their ability to transport. One bite of the chewy signature hand-ripped noodle, slicked with chili oil and over 2 dozen different spices and I’m no longer in Greenpoint. I’m somewhere else.

I’m very fascinated with the idea of “home food” — as in the food we all eat in our homes. To me, going to XFF and experiencing Northwestern Chinese cooking is exotic, it’s an experience. It’s a treat. And just like the little Russian-Jewish girl who felt jealous of her American classmates with their PB&J’s and spaghetti dinners, I find myself jealous of the people who get to call this flavorful, spicy, pungent cuisine their own.

Texture is a very important component of this dish for me. Aside from the obviously (and impossibly consistently) perfect hand-ripped noodles, lots of other elements contribute to the feel of the dish. The smoothness of the noodles is punctuated by the granular feel of dozens of different spices and the occasional crunch of biting into a spice at just the right angle. The thinly sliced lamb is tender enough but still sinewy and fun to chew. It’s slightly “gamey” in flavor, which is unfortunately frequently used as a negative descriptor. But just like I prefer a natural wine that shows off the terroir from which its grapes sprung, I also prefer meat that tastes unapologetically, expressively like itself. And while I’m normally head-first in the noodle component of any dish, I find myself reaching for the cabbage and onions that garnish the noodles over and over again. The onions have given in to the oil and spices, creating beautiful pockets of spiced softened onion throughout the dish, but the cabbage is different— it’s crunchy, impossibly fresh-tasting, and it stands up for itself. It’s a much-needed breather from the madness of flavor that I welcome with open arms.

I arrive at the restaurant at 2:30pm.

This is typical of me — I don’t have to be in until 3pm but I like to get a bit of a head start because there’s always a lot to prep for my station (garde manger). I say hello to everyone, both the front of house and back of house staff, because I’m friendly like that but also because I see these people more than I see my boyfriend and friends so they’re really growing on me. I head to the back and change into my uniform: a standard white chef coat (the restaurant just recently began ordering these in a size small for me and they’re still giant so I really have a bone to pick here because this feels sexist but I digress), really unattractive black slip-free/water resistant shoes, and an apron that’s so long it falls beneath my boobs (see previous note re: chef coat). I head to my station and survey the status of things, since I just had 2 days off. And by “the status” I mean is everything empty/running low/did the guy who works at my station when I’m gone use everything but not prep anything?

I work at the garde manger station (“garmo”) which is a French term for salads/cold appetizers. But what most people don’t know (and I can’t speak to all restaurants but at least at mine) is that my station busts out roughly ¾ of the menu. Like, I just tried to count to myself the amount of items I’m responsible for, got to 26, and gave up. To give you a rough idea, at any given time I’m responsible for 4 different types of crostini, 5 salads, 4 sandwiches, 5 desserts, several different combinations of antipasti, cheese plates and more. I’m the first one to get hit with the rush when all the tables sit down and start ordering apps, and the last person to feel the rush when all the dessert orders are coming in. I toss salads, slice prosciutto, plate desserts, make sandwiches — you get the gist.

After surveying the scene, I note that I’ll need to clean a new leg of prosciutto, quart the burrata, make a quart of flowering chive dressing, chop a hotel pan of kale, seed 4–5 pomegranates, season 3 quarts of ricotta, make 2 quarts of whipped cream, cut the chocolate tart, cut the cheesecake, put mascarpone into pints, pit the dessert prunes because for some reason they’re not pitted, portion cheeses for antipasti, slice about 15 orders of prosciutto cotto for the antipasti plate, slice one sweet soppressata and one spicy soppressata, and hopefully I’m not forgetting anything. Not bad for one day of prep. Oh, and this all needs to get done before the orders start coming in about 1.5 hours.

Before entering the world of professional cooking, I was a publicist for chefs and restaurants. I got to work with some of the best in the business and it was very rewarding but 90% of my job was answering and sending emails which just absolutely withered my soul. I had to leave but I felt lost and a little trapped: being a publicist was the only career I’d ever known and while I knew I wanted to remain in the food industry, I wasn’t sure exactly where I belonged. I decided that the best place to start was the place where I never thought I’d be: a professional kitchen.

Facing my fears in a traditionally cut-throat, male-dominated, intimidating, physically taxing industry was exactly what I needed. In a job where I thought I would feel the most out of place, I finally felt like I belonged. In doing repetitive tasks every day, I gained discipline. In working with my hands I found purpose. And most importantly: in interacting with people I normally wouldn’t cross paths with, I found meaning. This last paragraph I’m writing is in hindsight and I no longer work in the kitchen. I finally gained the tools and the confidence I needed to continue along my path in the world of food. But ay, mi madre — do I miss my kitchen pendejos.

Hey, it’s me. The girl who calls herself the “noodle queen” and eats dumplings approximately 5 times per week. I have a secret to tell you: until last month, I had NEVER been to Asia. That’s right — the continent responsible for all my greatest food obsessions had been nothing more than a mythical idea inside my noodle-filled head until recently, when I traversed the pacific with Journy and landed myself in none other than Taipei, Taiwan.

Taiwan is food Mecca. I came, I saw, I conquered, and I returned from my pilgrimage as an enlightened eater. Here are my findings.

Beef noodles

Going to Taiwan and not eating beef noodle soup is kind of like going to Italy and not eating pasta. It’s f’ing insane. Beef noodle soup is something of a national dish in Taiwan and I tried two absolutely fantastic versions thanks to the expert eaters at Journy. The first spot, Da Kuai Beef Noodle, was one of those homey hole-in-the-wall restaurants where the lack of an ambience is actually the best ambience. They hand-make their noodles as well as their broth and the result is a beautiful, light, flavorful bowl of soup with twisty, uneven noodles that add a pleasantly chewy texture to the dish (a texture amplified with beef tendon or tripe, should you choose to go that route). Completely different and simultaneously amazing, the beef noodle soup at Yong Kang Beef noodles is one that I’m not likely to soon forget. The broth was dark and rich with a depth of flavor that could only be achieved by hours and hours of patient simmering. The noodles were thinner and not hand-made but still had a perfect bite. In both cases, the beef noodle soup was best accompanied by Taiwan beer and good company.

Pork vermicelli with oysters at Chen Ji

We’re hungover. And we’re tired (because, let’s be real: if you’re not hungover and/or tired for the majority of a trip did you really do it right?). But we are determined.

At Chen Ji people cue up for the pork vermicelli noodles with tiny oysters. This soup is more like a thick stew of sorts and what shocked me most about this dish was how delicate it was. No part of it’s description (oyster vermicelli with pig intestine) screams “subtle.” But the oysters are not briny; they’re sweet. The pig intestine adds more crunch than it does extreme flavor, and the thin wisps of vermicelli along with the silky, thick soup make for a deeply satisfying textural experience.

Soup dumplings at Din Tai Fung

Din Tai Fung originated in Taipei and serves up some of the best soup dumplings I’ve tasted in my humble, dumpling-filled life. I’m sure you’ve had soup dumplings before and that’s all fine and good but the xiao long bao at Din Tai Fung are ART. Each dumpling is made with exactly 5 grams of dough, 16 grams of filling and 18 pleats. When we landed in Taiwan after about 20 hours of travel I was jet-lagged and SO hungry: the optimal state for entering a country where eating is one of the main hobbies. After just one bite of a juicy xiao long bao, the thin dumpling skin just barely carrying the weight of the rich soup inside it and the vinegar sauce + pickled ginger off-setting the meaty pork perfectly, all signs of discomfort were cured. Don’t sleep on the chili oil wontons, either.

Cherry roast duck at Red Lantern

At Red Lantern in Yilan, cherry roast duck is the star of the show. The entire glistening bird is carved table-side, its various parts utilized in dishes ranging from stuffed scallion pancake and 3 cup duck to hearty soup made from the leftover bones. But one bite hovered slightly above the rest: roasted duck “nigiri.” In this rendition of sushi, crispy duck skin acts as the nori, encasing sticky rice and a bit of cheese. The duck skin is so sweet and bursts with flavorful, hot juicy fat the second it enters your mouth, coating the sticky rice masterfully and sending its recipient into a state of euphoria. Moment of silence, please.

Specialties at Ning Xia Night Market

Ning Xia Night Market is a food playground and I, an active jungle gym-rat.

Generally, the idea that a culture is so obsessed with food that there are giant markets with dozens if not hundreds of food stalls open all night long awaiting the hungry masses is extremely appealing to me. Even more appealing is the fact that at Ning Xia, many of the vendors are considered the best at their particular specialties.

We started our jaunt through the night market with some goose noodle soup — a richer, more complex version of the homey chicken noodle soup I grew up with. Apparently, those who are in-the-know request a side of chopped up goose head to go with their noodle soup, the brain being the most coveted part. Of course, I had to take part in this tradition and recommend others do, as well.

Important to note: this entire market is ripe with the smell of stinky tofu. What does that smell like, you might ask? Well, I’d liken it to the pervasive scent of human urine/general ghastly odors that are the norm at the 14th street/8th avenue subway station and anyone who lives in New York knows that is the smelliest station in Manhattan. HOWEVER: stinky tofu is actually delicious. It’s probably the single situation where scent doesn’t enhance flavor. The tofu is deep-fried, spongy, a little bit funky and very good.

Another must-order at this market: The lu rou fen (minced pork rice) with duck egg yolk. Wash it down with a cold Taiwan beer (and really, that’s the ideal scenario for any meal).

Aboriginal dining at Truku

Truku, located in Taroko Gorge, is more like a home than it is a restaurant. Dining at Truku is akin to having lunch at a family friend’s home — grab a seat at the table and wait for lunch to be served while the family bustles around in the kitchen, their daughter playing at your feet.

The restaurant is named for the aboriginal tribe that occupies the area and serves food that utilizes its unique ingredients, prepared by indigenous cooking methods. And yes, the food is delicious but more than that, Truku is transportive. It took me to another time, another life, another place where no one is in a hurry and everyone is family. The wild boar, quail, century egg with tofu + roe, and sweet sausage + sticky rice in bamboo just sweetened the deal.

Late Night

Yong He Soy Milk is one of those places that exists to right the wrongs. You’re hungry? Awesome. It’s late and you don’t want to go to another bar but you don’t want to go home? Great. You want some soup dumplings but could also go for an egg crepe with pork floss? Perfect. The food is great and at 4am, so is the people watching.

Want to hear something slightly embarrassing? I am a first generation American daughter of Soviet refugees from Ukraine, and through all my exploration of food I know practically nothing about cooking Ukrainian/Russian/Jewish food. And when I really think about it, it actually makes so much sense: a large part of my childhood was spend envying and emulating other cultures. I didn’t want kotleti or beetochki (Russian meatballs/pounded chicken cutlets) for lunch, I wanted my friends’ peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I didn’t want anyone to come over and see the saldatiki I ate for after-school snack (rye bread with butter and salmon roe), I wanted to go to THEIR houses and eat potato chips and cookies. I went crazy for the taco salad, hamburger pie and spaghetti that everyone was having for dinner, coveting those foods and regarding my own dinners of borscht, smoked fish, etc. as “home food” that was eaten when there weren’t more exciting options. My disdain for my culture extended beyond food: I was embarrassed when I had to translate for my mom because the cashiers at Kroger couldn’t understand her Russian accent and felt deeply ashamed when my friends’ parents poked fun at my own parents slightly neurotic, paranoid parenting. Today I realize that my childhood instilled in me a love of food and a lust try try everything and my mom/grandparents are still the best cooks I’ve ever met. Eastern European food doesn’t get much love in the states — it’s not trendy and honestly, it’s not as exciting or ubiquitously cherished as Asian or Italian cuisines. But it’s the food of my home. It warmed my belly as I grew up; it comforted me through fights with friends and awkward boy encounters. It’s the food I dreamed of freshman year when I left home for college. It’s the food that overflowed every table at every family function for as long as I can remember. It’s soul food.

Cooking the food of my parents and grandparents and embracing who I am at the core really got me thinking about something else I’ve tried to change about myself since I was a little girl: my hair. I have wild, frizzy, curly-as-all-hell Jewish hair. I’ve used flat irons, blow dryers, straightening creams, relaxers, blow outs, shampoos and conditioners to try to tame the frizz and loosen the curl since I was 10 years old. My hair, much like the food eaten at my home growing up, was something I was slightly embarrassed of at best and absolutely detested at worst. I remember going to my first middle school basketball game with one of my girlfriends when I was about 12 — we wanted to impress the older boys so she volunteered to straighten my hair. Well, needless to say, her $20 ConAir hair straightener intended for Anglo-Saxon pre-teens with already straight hair was NO match for my kinky mop. But she convinced me that the frizzy, fried mess on top of my head looked good and off we went. It wasn’t until some of the middle school boys started gesturing to my hair and telling me I needed a comb that I realized I was not looking as hot as I’d hoped and while I was getting attention from the boys, it wasn’t the kind I wanted. I went home and I cried. I convinced my mom to take me to Sharper Image the next week to buy a slightly more expensive $50 hair straightener someone had recommended. There’s no way I could enter middle school without getting this situation under control! So every morning, I diligently divided my hair into sections, blow dried it using some L’Oreal product Beyonce was advertising, and plugged away with my Sharper Image flat iron, hoping for sleek, silky, beautiful strands like the rest of my friends had and that the ads told me I could achieve. My tumultuous relationship with my hair continued throughout middle school and high school. I didn’t have much guidance because the rest of the women in older generations of my family had embraced their curls and had never tried to get rid of them so I really didn’t know how to take care of my hair and as a result, it kept breaking off from the heat damage and not to mention the highlights (obviously I wanted to be blonde, that was beautiful!). I got my first hair relaxer at age 15 and continued to spend 1000s of dollars a year on relaxers, hair products, coloring services, and more for the next decade. And guess what? I’m 26 now and I no longer give a fuck. Cheers to this curly-headed, smoked-fish loving, imperfect person I am — may I continue to become more of me.

My favorite thing about eating in Jackson Heights is the momos. A momo is a Tibetan dumpling usually filled with beef. They’re similar to Chinese soup dumplings but the dough is thicker and chewier, and the inside isn’t filled with soup, although they do get juicy from fat that renders from steaming the meat inside. Momos are usually served with sides of black vinegar and homemade hot sauce and when I say hot sauce I literally mean this sauce is on fire so use it sparingly unless you’re a maniac like me.

Lhasa Fast Food serves my favorite beef and chive momos. Unexpectedly clean-tasting as a result of the chives, the momos at Lhasa are generously filled with beef and burst with aromatic, beefy juice on the first bite. The dumpling skin is thick and chewy, twisted into a beautiful handkerchief-like shape to encase the filling. Topped with homemade hot sauce and doused with a bit of black vinegar, these dumplings are simultaneously spicy, acidic, rich and refreshing — and each bite is heaven.

Another specialty at Lhasa Fast Food is the liang fen (laphing) noodles, which can be ordered “sushi” style, meaning rolled to resemble a maki roll, rather than the more traditionally-served loose noodles in a bowl. Liang fen noodles are made by kneading and squeezing the gluten out of barley flour, then steaming it into sheets. The sheets are cut into noodles and, if ordered sushi-style, rolled up with black vinegar with gluten pieces in the middle. The noodles are super smooth and soft to bite, with a lingering heat that only hits you after you swallow. It’s also worth noting that Lhasa Fast Food is fairly hidden: to get there, you walk through an unassuming store front, down a few stairs, past a hallway with a cell phone store and only then does the smell of spices in the air reach your nose, signifying that you’ve arrived.

Other notable momos in Jackson Heights are served at Little Tibet, which is more of a traditional restaurant, and at the Amdo Kitchen food truck, which slings out momos in record speed on the corner of 74th street and 37th road. But for me, nothing beats the enticing open kitchen, peaceful surroundings and craveable beef and chive momos at Lhasa Fast Food.