In Search of the Tonguegasm - NYTimes.com
The first stage of Sichuan addiction — experimentation — is brief and violent. You either get out immediately, vanquished and penitent, or something inside you changes. Inside your stomach and inside your brain, the surge of dopamine alters the neurochemistry, requiring the addict to seek to match that first, miraculous high. My initiation occurred in 1997 at Wu Liang Ye, one of Manhattan’s first Sichuan restaurants, which, the manager told me, was opened by the People’s Republic of China to promote awareness of the variety and complexity of Chinese cuisine.
This act of culinary propaganda was enormously successful — Sichuan restaurants soon began appearing all over New York. I later followed the Sichuan trail to restaurants in Sunset Park, Bensonhurst and the subterranean food courts in Flushing, which require a Chinese-speaking guide to navigate properly. It was a pastime, I told myself, all in good fun. Then I read about the San Gabriel Valley, east of Los Angeles, which has the most-concentrated Chinese community in the U.S. and a staggering array of Sichuan restaurants. The most prominent of these — the Sichuan king of San Gabriel — is Chung King. The next time I was in L.A., I drove straight to San Gabriel Boulevard. That’s when I lost control. I don’t know if Chung King is the best Sichuan restaurant in America, but I can attest that it induces delirium.
A clarification: Sichuan food should not be confused with what most Americans understand to be Chinese food. It is distinguished by spicy, oil-based sauces that are flavored by salt, garlic, ginger, pickled chilies, doubanjiang — a spicy paste made from broad beans — and, most crucially, Sichuan peppercorns, which burst like Bang Snaps on your tongue and give the food its trademark flavor: ma la (“numbing spicy”). When your mouth is coated with ma la, water tastes like flat ginger ale. One Sichuan devotee I know describes the ma la sensation as a “tonguegasm.” The pulse increases and the pupils dilate, often accompanied by a postnasal drip. The brain floats in a euphoric ether.
Sichuan menus tend to list approximately 800 dishes, and at many lesser restaurants each comes drowned in a numbing, spicy oil. But Sichuan cuisine has, in fact, 22 other flavors besides ma la. This I learned from Fuchsia Dunlop’s definitive Sichuan cookbook, “Land of Plenty,” in which she describes each of these flavors, including “red-oil flavor,” “fragrant wine flavor” and, my favorite, “strange-flavor,” which combines ma la with han (salty), tian (sweet), suan (sour), xian (fresh-savory) and xiang (fragrant) notes.
On my return to Chung King this summer, I determined to try as many of the 23 flavors as possible. I began with Chung King-flavored noodles; these were numbing and spicy, to be certain, but also had a note of “scorched-chili flavor,” which is derived from mixing fried, dried chili with soy sauce, Sichuan pepper, vinegar, garlic and sugar. A dry, cumin-dusted lamb rubbed with large chunks of garlic and chili peppers delivered the dense “smoked flavor.” Spicy eggplant, a Sichuan staple, tasted as if it had been fermented in vinegar, a blending of the “homestyle” and “fish-fragrant” flavors. Most magnificent, however, were the boiled fish slices, garnished with fresh cilantro, in a bowl of hot sauce, in which could be perceived not just the Sichuan peppercorn but also star anise — a trademark of the elite “five-spice flavor.” The fried chicken with garlic and crunchy red chili peppers might have been imbued with the sublime “strange-flavor,” but by that point my mouth was numb.
I always make a point of ordering some dish unsettling to the Western sensibility in the assumption that it must be authentic and therefore marvelous. At Chung King, the best way to do this is to walk to the back of the restaurant, where there stands a kind of deli counter arrayed with a number of cold dishes that the restaurant does not include on the English menu. I pointed at a platter that seemed to contain thin slabs of red marble. I was told that these were sliced pig ears. They were salty and greasy (“Sichuan pepper flavor,” from raw Sichuan pepper mashed with green scallions, salt and sesame oil). I ate them all..
“品尝”，是对川菜上瘾必经的第一阶段，这个阶段短暂而激烈。你要么就马上冲出去，满心 后悔，觉得自己败下阵来；要么就觉得自己体内有什么东西永远被改变了。多巴胺源源不绝地从胃部和大脑分泌出来，让你的整个神经化学系统都发生变化，让你不 断追求再次体验到那奇迹般的高潮，继而彻底上瘾，欲罢不能。我的初体验是1997年在“五粮液”(Wu Liang Ye)饭馆，这是曼哈顿的第一批川菜馆之一，老板告诉我，它是由“中华人民共和国”开办的，目的是宣传中餐的丰富多样。
这个美味宣传攻势可谓是大获成功，从那以后不久，纽约就开始遍地都是川菜馆了。后来我又到日落公园、本森赫斯特和法拉盛区的地下小吃摊去寻访川菜的 踪迹，这需要有个会说中文的向导带着你。我告诉自己，这只是消遣，纯粹是种乐趣而已。后来我又看到报道，说洛杉矶东部有个叫圣加百利谷(San Gabriel Valley)的地方，是美国华人最集中的社区，川菜馆子多到令人难以置信。其中最有名的一家叫“重庆”(Chung King)，算得上圣加百利的川菜之王。后来再去洛杉矶的时候，我就开着车一头直奔圣加百利大道。我就是从那一次开始彻底沦陷的。不知道“重庆”是不是全 美最好的川菜馆，但我能作证它让人疯狂。
澄清一点，不要把川菜和大多数美国人理解的中餐混为一谈。川菜的特色是辛辣，用油作为底料调味，辅以盐、姜、蒜、腌辣椒和豆瓣酱（一种用蚕豆做成的 香辣酱），不过最重要的还要算花椒，它们就像小爆竹一样在舌尖上爆炸，赋予食物川菜的招牌特色——“麻辣”。当口腔里充满麻辣的滋味，清水品尝起来就像是 姜汁饮料一样。我认识的一个川菜爱好者说，麻辣的感觉就像“舌尖上的高潮”，能让你脉搏加快，瞳孔扩大，往往还会让你流鼻涕，让你的大脑在一个充满幸福的 空间里飘荡。
川菜菜单通常会包括将近800道菜，在很多比较小的饭馆里，每道菜都会浸泡在麻辣油里送上来。但是除了麻辣之外，川菜其实还有22种其他口味。这是 我在法希娅·丹罗普(Fuchsia Dunlop)权威的川菜烹饪书《富饶之地》(Land of Plenty)里读到的。她在书中详细描述了每一种口味，其中包括“红油”、酒糟”，还有我最心爱的“怪味”——它把麻辣和咸、甜、酸、鲜、香这些口味统 统结合在一起。
今年夏天我又去了一趟“重庆”，决定尽可能地多多尝试这23种口味。我先从“重庆担担面”(Chung King-flavored noodles)开始，它又麻又辣，但其实属于“干炸辣椒”风味，是把油炸过的干辣椒和酱油、花椒、醋、大蒜和糖混合起来调味。还有一种加了孜然粉的干羊 腿，上菜时辅以蒜瓣和红辣椒，是浓重的“烟熏”风味。有一种辣味茄子，是川菜里很重要的一道菜，尝起来像是用醋腌制过，混合了“家常”和“鱼香”口味。不 过最棒的一道菜还要算是水煮鱼片，上菜时提供一碗热乎乎的调味汁，里面装点着香菜，不仅能品尝出花椒香味，还有八角的味道（八角是“五香”口味里调味的关 键）。大蒜和干红辣椒炸鸡属于“怪味”风味，会让你口中充满奇异美妙的怪味，同时也会让你嘴里麻麻的。
我一直都喜欢点一些西方人感情上接受不了的菜，只要它是货真价实的美味就行。在“重庆”，这样的东西最好到饭馆后面的熟食柜台去找，里面有不少冷 菜，是饭馆提供的英语菜单上没有的。我指着一盘看上去像是薄薄的红色大理石板的东西，结果被告知这是切片的猪耳朵。它们又咸又油腻，属于“川椒”口味，就 是用捣碎的花椒加上香葱、盐和芝麻油调味。我把一大盘全吃光了。