(Photo by pointnshoot, CC)
Ed. – Say you’re at your favorite Chinese take-out, feasting on moo goo gai pan and crab rangoon. “I bet they don’t really eat this stuff in China,” you think, recalling the Discovery Channel special on TV last month. You would be correct. But how did dishes like chow mein and the once ubiquitous chop suey, unrecognizable to anyone in China, become such so well-loved in the US? Author Andrew Coe explores this and other mysteries of the Chinese-American culinary repertoire in his new book Chop Suey: A Cultural History of Chinese Food in the United States
Somewhere in America right now, noodles are frying. The chef is preparing chow mein, which simply means “fried noodles” in Chinese. But not all fried noodles are alike. In China, the varieties of chow mein are as numerous as the regional cuisines. Some are lightly heated in the wok, while others, particularly in Guangdong province and Hong Kong, are fried in bunches in oil until they’re browned and crispy on the outer edges but still soft in the middle. It was this southern style of chow mein that was carried to the United States by the Chinese immigrants.
Back in the 19th century, America was introduced to chow mein after it had already fallen for chop suey. The setting was Mott Street in New York’s Chinatown, in the 1880s. While New Yorkers were wolfing down bowls full of chop suey, they began to notice something on the menu called chow mein, described as “fried vermicelli with strips of pork, celery, onions, and spices.” Notice the celery and onion on the ingredient list; those are also two of the key components of chop suey, providing a base of flavor and sweetness for the dish. In fact, what New Yorkers came to like about chow mein was both its resemblance to chop suey and a special quality of those
fried noodles. In Roy L. M’Cardell’s humorous column “Conversations With a Chorus Girl” (1903), his attractive but ditzy protagonist touts the wonders of chow mein: “Gee! I like it. You’d think the vermicelli was Saratoga chips cut into strings.” (Saratoga chips was the original name for potato chips.) The resemblance to potato chips would make chow mein a star.
In southern China, chefs tried to balance the crisp and the soft parts of the noodles. In the United States, we only wanted the crunchy parts. In the Mandarin Chop Suey Cook Book from 1928, the author tells us how to prepare the egg noodles: “Put five cups pure lard in a large pan on the stove–have lard hot, then add noodles; fry until brown (like one fries shoe-string potatoes). Spread a large sheet of white paper on the table, then take noodles from pan, spread on the paper, let cool.” Or you could just reach into the cupboard for a can of La Choy Chow Mein Noodles, which gave you the crispy bits without the work.
In fact, La Choy (founded in 1922 by two University of Michigan graduates) also sold you the rest of a Chinese-American meal in a can. To make chop suey, just open and heat a can of La Choy Chicken Chop Suey and pour it over rice. To make chow mein, just open and heat the same can and pour it over La Choy Chow Mein Noodles. La Choy later erased any possible confusion by labeling their cans “Chicken Chop Suey or Chow Mein,” promising that their preparation was “Chineasy!”
Crispy noodles migrated in ways that no South Chinese chef would have imagined: as a pre-meal appetizer to be dipped in sweet plum sauce, as a textured mix into dishes like creamed tuna chow mein, and blended like Rice Krispies into all kinds of cookies and other sweets. Because cooks could buy crispy noodles in bulk from the nearest Chinese noodle manufacturer, chow mein became the most popular dish in the Chinese-American repertoire. If diners wanted to show off, they would order the “subgum chow mein”, containing the usual sprouts, celery, and meat as well as a water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, almonds, Chinese cabbage, and so on, most of it from a can and all of it cooked until soggy and flavorless.
Luckily, immigration has the power to reverse culinary trends, at least in part. Today, you can find many Cantonese restaurants in the nation’s various Chinatowns where the chefs know how to prepare chow mein South China-style: crispy on the outside and soft in the middle. But in the vast majority of Chinese restaurants (there are now over 40,000 in the US), tradition still rules. Chop suey is quickly disappearing, except in the Midwest, but American-style chow mein is available almost everywhere. Considering the usually minimal difference between the two dishes, it must be the noodles.
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Interesting bit of history on Chow Mein, but my family prefers Lo Mein and oolong.
My grandmother once told me about eating tuna chow mein as a kid, and it sounded odd until I saw it in an old cookbook. Great post!
I’ve seen this book on Amazon. Seems interesting, like Fortune Cookie Chronicles with more history.
That was the Chow mein saga… Your post left my mouth watering:P I myself is a huge fan of Chinese food and particularly chowmein, i have always adored the crisp noodles but i have never gotten a chance to taste noodles which are crisp at the edge and soft in the middle, chinese food are now very popular all over the world, these are so adaptive in nature that they fit into any cuisine, we have America style Chowmein, Indian style and am sure the others would have also improvised it to suit there taste.
I myself is the huge fan of chinese food and also cook some great chinese but the fact is that we never cook true chinese as you have said in the post. I never knew about the crisp and soft noodles in the choumein but i just love chicken choupsey.And although i mycelf cook some chinese but i swear by the packed chinese that come in the market they taste as good as any resturant one minus the dressing part ofcourse :P
I’ve noticed that on the East Coast if you order chow mein you get the dish described in this post, with crispy noodles. In California though, you (usually) get a dish with softer noodles when you order chow mein – I think this goes by “lo mein” on the East Coast. This must be the southern-China style chow mein mentioned at the end of the post. Anyone know the reason for the different types of “chow mein” on the different coasts? I’d love to know; it’s been bugging me since I lived in Virginia for a while and was totally confused when my order of chow mein was all crispy!! :)
There must be 200 chinese restaurants in the Washington,DC area, but I have not found one that offers subgum.It is my favorite and was readily available when I lived in the midwest.Why,why,why