When Jacob and I first moved to Beijing we were infatuated with hot pot. It was the beginning of winter, when low temperatures and relentless winds made dinner over a pot of boiling broth very enticing. We didn't have a kitchen in our first apartment and ate out almost every night at hot pot restaurants both cheap and pricey.

Then, spring came. With the warmer weather emerged the more discerning, and lazier, eater in us. Why should I pay higher prices to cook my own food? Isn't the purpose of eating out to sit back and enjoy other people's creations?

So we avoided hot pot completely until a two weeks ago. It was freezing in Beijing and we walked past a hutong restaurant through whose windows we saw only steam and blurry outlines of people dipping food into a pot. Sold.

The place was as local as you could imagine. "No smoking" signs covered the walls but every other patron was puffing on a cigarette. Tabletops were cracked and peeling. Beer was served in little neon water tumblers manufactured for small children. But the attraction was the hot pot itself, this ancient iron monster heated by charcoal, not those nouveau thingies with induction cookers. (I particularly love the photo up top, in with the hot pot looks like this inferno surrounded by bits of swimming goji berries and enoki mushrooms.) 

American expats in China, far from home and faced with limited supplies of turkey, have been known to celebrate with Peking duck. Here, duck dinners are the next closest thing to a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal. This was my second Thanksgiving in Beijing, and my second with Peking duck. Really, what is the difference between a big beautiful turkey that spends 4 hours in a home oven, and a big beautiful duck that spends 30 minutes in a brick restaurant oven? (Other than a lot of work for someone else?)

I try to limit my Peking duck intake to when friends and family visit, but Thanksgiving brings out my love of laboriously-prepared birds. When Foodbuzz put out a call for another 24, 24, 24 event, I knew I wanted pay homage to what has become a new Thanksgiving tradition in China. Last year Jacob and I ate at the unspectacular Bianyifang Roast Duck Restaurant, but this year we invited 3 other friends out to Da Dong, one of the best duck restaurants in town. 

(Peking duck and condiments in a sesame puff; Duck bone soup)

(Steamed Mandarin fish and tofu in saffron soup.)

Earlier this week, at an election-night viewing party in Beijing, I was discussing the city's restaurant scene with a fellow expat. "Name your 5 favorite Chinese restaurants in Beijing," he said. After rattling off the favorites, it occured to me that most of my top picks were Sichuan spots. "Where do you go for Cantonese?" he asked. "Hong Kong" was my response.

Beijing's lack of good Cantonese spots has been part of the challenge of living here. I often bemoan the fact that I can more easily find a passable wonton noodle soup, cha siu, and dim sum in New York. Even Cantonese ingredients like fish sauce, wonton wrappers, and lap cheong are rare in supermarkets. All Chinese food is not created equal, or equally available, in China.

I was hesitant to visit a restaurant owned by a Taiwanese pop star. In the US, celebrity-backed ventures are usually failures with seriously bad food. It didn't help that one online reviewer mentioned that the décor was "over the top."

"Really?" I asked my friend, who usually prefers threadbare restaurants where one can feast like a king for next to nothing. He insisted we try, because it was listed on his Beijing map. 

I guess Taiwanese celebs know their food better than their American counterparts. We ended up having a pretty good meal of mostly Yunnan and Guizhou food. One dish I liked in particular were fava beans with Yunnan goat cheese. I had mentioned Yunnan goat cheese before, from a restaurant I have come to despise because of the horribly rude (even for Beijing) service.

Rǔbǐng (乳饼) is the only Chinese cheese I know of that is widely known and popular, at least in China. It's delicious when pan-fried, with a sprinkle of sugar or salt and pepper on top. In the fava bean dish, it was steamed and dressed with a mellow rice wine sauce. Simple, and a great rice accompaniment.

Okay, maybe "love" is an overstatement.

Not long after I filmed the Donghuamen Night Market segment with CBS (but before it aired), I was contacted by KGW, Portland's NBC affiliate. Stephanie Stricklen, the correspondent, wanted to shoot an odd street food story for the Portland area, and of course, I obliged. (According to an online pole, viewers had insisted she try scorpion.) She was also excited to learn that Jacob is an ex-Oregonian, and thus his appearance in the segment.

This KWG clip which aired on August 19th shows both the Donghuamen Night Market and the slightly less tourisy Wangfujing Snack Street.

"Would you like a fork topping to go with your chopsticks?" asked the Swiss waiter.

Leave it to the Swiss to think of inventive alternatives to standard cutlery sets. Jacob and I ate with another friend at the Swiss House last week, one of the few Olympic houses open to the public. On the table when we sat down were fork heads and chopsticks to attach them to.

Nevermind that none of the food on the menu, including fois gras terrine, charcuterie, and spätzle, is typically eaten with chopsticks. They seem to be out simply as chinoiserie, a tiny homage to the host country, perhaps. (Like the orange rice paddy hats some Dutch fans are wearing at their Holland House, except less likely to be misconstrued.) But the novelty kept us amused and snapping photos for the first part of the evening.

I always thought that if I ever tried eating bugs, it would be on a dare, for a ton of money. Then last weekend I found myself at the Donghuamen Night Market with a CBS crew, trying centipedes, silkworms, and other odd critters for a CBS Early Edition segment. (More photos following the video.) 

You can also see the video on CBS's site.)

...is next to impossible, I have discovered. It seems that when eating out during the next two weeks, you need to carry not only a ton of cash, but also a stiff jaw that doesn't drop upon receiving the final bill.

I understand prices always rise during such high-profile events, and I'm sure in Athens, Torino, and Sydney more than a few locals simply stayed home more than usual. But I was ((and still am) determined not to become a hermit during the biggest party in China's 5,000+ years of history. 

So I have sucked it up and tried to forget the almost doubling of prices at my local (albeit quite famous) Peking duck place. And the $12 Carlsberg and $11 Evian on "Sanlitun Super Bar Street" I just attributed to the area being a tourist magnet. But two nights ago we headed to Duck de Chine, an elegant new Peking duck restaurant whose bird a trusted foodie friend said was on par with my current favorite Da Dong's, and about the same price of around 200 RMB ($29) per duck including pancakes and condiments. 

After we got seated, however, we learned that they were only offering 3- to 4-course set menus for the duration of the Olympics, at the equivalent of $124 a person (!!!) In China. For New York prices.

A foodie's guide to Beijing that I wrote and photographed is in this month's Theme, a glossy culture and lifestyle magazine out of Brooklyn. As part of their Olympic issue, they have contributions from a bunch of Beijingers, including gallery recs from the art editor of Time Out Beijing and club recs from the sound engineer of D-22.

If you're in Beijing or plan to go soon, check out the guide, complete with street food introductions, Chinese and Western restaurant recommendations, and photos from Appetite for China. There are also a few recommendations from two other correspondents as indicated by **. I don't vouch for the spots personally, but to each his own taste! Bon appétit, or 干杯 (gan bei).