Rebecca and I, early in our relationship, worked at a restaurant called the Tempura House. There, I learned to wrap and cook gyoza (commonly known as ‘potstickers’ in the U.S.), how to make egg rolls and wontons, and how to cut a whole chicken into legs/breasts/thighs/wings in less than 60 seconds. Rebecca gained such skills as dealing with rude customers and catching indoor-flying birds.

Nowadays, when we visit my father we often re-visit the Tempura House. It’s under new ownership, and since my father and his wife frequently eat there and are friends with the owner, we get extra-special treatment when we sit down. Free wine is accompanied by the owner’s near-insistence that we forsake the usual (but delicious) offerings on his menu and instead partake of whatever special meal he is preparing that day. We learned long ago that there is little choice in the matter. If we disappoint him and order the ‘normal’ fare, he’ll dress it up or add some ingredient to turn the meal on its head.

This time, as we sat down to enjoy a celebratory New Year's dinner, the offering was ‘Hot Pepper Chicken’. In his nearly impossible-to-understand Chinese accent, the owner described a dish that featured little bits of chicken accompanied by a single vegetable – dried chili peppers. He assured us that the meal was ‘old-style Chinese’, and that it was ‘very, very hot’.

 My brother Nathan and I decided to take him up on the offer.

When our plates arrived, the chicken bits were easily outnumbered by the ‘vegetables’ – each chili was slightly charred and quite delicious, but hot enough that one’s ability to taste was severely diminished. The chicken itself was spicy enough to melt your tongue, and was covered in a thick scattering of strange spices, none of which were familiar and each of which contributed to the meal’s unique and exotic flavor.

                                                                                                                               Chinese black cardamom?
I must admit that I had wanted to go with my old standby when I walked into the Tempura House. But by the end of the meal, when the owner brought out examples of all the spices he had used and everyone at our table marveled over the strange seed pods, pungent powders, and mysterious roots, I was thankful that I had sacrificed the pleasant security of my old standby in favor of trying something totally new.

As for Rebecca, she ordered her favorite, which was quite nice since she and I could trade dishes back and forth.

When we were leaving, the owner gave us a hint of what awaited us next time. He described a special pot into which boiling water would steep a mixture of herbs and spices. We would, he said, dip thin shavings of lamb into the broth just long enough to cook it slightly, and the result would be a meal with magical properties. Using more body language than words, he explained that our bodies would burn with a fierce heat, and that we would experience the ultimate in aphrodisiacal effects when we took our wives home.

There are places like this, where old traditions still lurk, and incredible experiences await those of us who seek them out. I don’t know the owner well enough to know whether everything he says is true, and I don’t understand him well enough to fully comprehend most of what he tells us. But whether we’re experiencing a taste of authentic ‘old China’, or just some of the owner’s special magic, it’s an adventure that Rebecca and I are eager to return to.