By Kaitlin Steinberg
By Minh T Truong
By Molly Dunn
By Brooke Viggiano
By Kaitlin Steinberg
By Molly Dunn
By Molly Dunn
By Eating Our Words
"There's someone back in that kitchen whose only job is to mince and toast garlic," surmised my tablemate as we demolished a mess of soft-shell crabs in the cushy pink confines of Fung's Kitchen. She sounded very pleased at this notion. I understood her line of thought: every square inch of crab shell bore a golden garlic confetti that formed a celestial grit; it leapt out from a richly muted backdrop of butter and black pepper and ghostly essence of long-since-evaporated beer.
We had encountered this same celestial grit the week before, spiking some pillowy wedges of crisp-battered eggplant stuffed with shrimp. We had dredged the lava-like eggplant puffs in the browned garlic, dipped them into a dark bath of vinegar sauce begged from the waitress, and reflected that eating Chinese food in Houston is a far more cheering activity than it used to be.
Fung's Kitchen, an immaculate and ambitious spot on the Southwest Freeway just south of Bellaire Boulevard, is one of a new crop of Chinese restaurants catering to the affluent, sophisticated Asian clientele that throngs the Bellaire axis in search of extended-family meals, serious business dinners and celebratory feasts. Western fellow travelers are welcome along for the interesting (if inconsistent) ride: Imperial Palace has regaled us with heroic dim sum lunches, Chiu Chow cuisine and outrageous wild game dishes; Shanghai Restaurant has given us regional specialties in a robust, homespun vein. Now comes Fung's Kitchen, with its pretty-in-pinkness and its strong sense of occasion, its knack for seafood and for fried items in the much-abused "crispy" mode.
7320 SW Freeway
Houston, TX 77074
Region: Outer Loop - SW
"Crispy" is not a scare word here; on the contrary, it denotes an unusually well-seasoned batter that fries up into a thin, genuinely crunchy crust. Unlike mediocre fried food, a Fung's crispy eggplant pouf does not descend into wretchedness as it cools; 20 minutes on, you may find yourself still sparring over the last, lonely wedges in their Pyrex pie pan.
The restaurant does crispy crab claws and the more exotic crispy shrimp in their (edible!) shells as well. In either case, make sure you get a little dish of star anise-flavored salt to go along, and a saucer of the restaurant's sprightly vinegar sauce (you'll probably have to ask). And be warned that the crispy squid can be rubbery as all get-out. My Thai friend laughed uproariously as she watched me bite into a thick, gangly piece that literally stretched out and boomeranged back, hitting me in the mouth. "We don't fry this big kind in Thailand," she sniffed disapprovingly. "Better for grilling." Better to keep on hand as a spare fan belt, I thought to myself.
But my uncharitable thoughts were few here, and they were mitigated by the wonderfulness of what I have come to think of as my Ideal Fung's Kitchen Dinner. First up: crisp-roasted halves of Georgia quail to eat with seasoned salt or vinegar dip, so moist and delicious you're tempted to crunch up the more fragile of the little bird bones once you've gnawed off every shred of meat. At $3.50 for two halves (plus a carved turnip rose in an eye-popping shade of fuchsia), they're a bargain.
Next: a dramatic platterful of steamed oysters still attached to their half shells -- plumped and satiny oysters, their opulence neatly subverted by the salty bite of black beans and a green storm of cilantro leaves and scallion ringlets. This is one of a handful of truly great oyster dishes in the city. (Fung's does a similar special of fresh scallops on the half shell, some trailing lush curls of scallop coral; it's a splendid idea, but the ones I sampled had been cooked past their platonic, tenderly gelled state and were entering the Realm of Rubber.)
Then: the sainted crispy eggplant. And: a delicately bitter tangle of deep-green snow pea leaves -- the off-the-menu "pea shoots" that have become so fashionable in Chinese spots of late -- which are more refined than the usual spinach with garlic. Their simplicity suits the baroque pan-sauteed soft-shells, a jillion irresistible garlic bits clinging to the salty, crackly crabs, all to be lovingly chopsticked up with fragrant and appealingly sticky white rice.
A hacked-up Tsing Tao lobster can be given the same buttery garlic-bit treatment ("chef Hoi's secret style" is how the menu describes it), or be coated with a gentle, gingery paste and strewn with lengths of wilted scallion and shards of ginger so thin you can eat them like a particularly obstreperous vegetable. I've grown leery of Chinese-restaurant lobsters over the years; too often they are overcooked or smothered in overwhelming sauces. Fung's lobster was neither. It was reasonably tender and, by god, it still tasted like a lobster. I may have wished, fleetingly, that it had been cooked three minutes less, but I liked it.
I was not so enchanted by Fung's game dishes, which struck me as more show and sizzle than actual substance. Wild boar tenderloin on wooden skewers arrived on one of the popping, steaming black platters the restaurant favors, whereupon the waitress doused it in a sweetish brown sauce that sizzled even more mightily and turned the meat into a sort of candy. The "caramelized onion and black pepper" that had sounded so good on the menu were obliterated by this sauce, as was any discernible flavor of pig. Simple, relatively tender, sauteed strips of venison with lots of ginger and green onions was more successful. But I'm afraid that Imperial Palace's striking venison steak and riveting wild boar stew with bitter greens make Fung's versions pale in comparison.