Recently, while visiting Jacob's grandmother in California, I discovered a torn cookbook in her kitchen drawers. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You found my bible!"  

Titled "Country Cookin'", the book was published in the 1970s by the Monterey County Cowbelles, otherwise known as the wives of Monterey's ranchers. Surprisingly, only a tenth of the book is devoted to red-meat-centric dishes. Most of the recipes are charmingly anachronistic, like Dove in Wine Sauce and Hot Russian Tea (with Tang!). But what really caught my attention were the handful of Chinese recipes. 

Zooming past the egg foo young and sweet and sour beef, I zeroed in on chop suey. After all, it was the page with the most food stains, the telltale sign of a beloved recipe.

(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, which came out this week. In today's guest post, he gives a glimpse into the past and present life of chow mein.

Last summer when Jacob went to Budapest for a conference, he took an few hours to stroll around the city's "Chinatown." Except there wasn't much of one, at least not the kind with red-and-gold gates and tons of indistinguishable souvenir vendors - kitschy but telltale signs that a city at least tries to embrace its multicultural identity. 

With Hungary, the situation is a little more complicated. Through numerous conversations with Hungarians, many of them ultra-liberal on a range of political issues, there was an underlying resentment of recent Chinese immigrants. The country's Chinese population mostly consists of Fujianese who arrived starting in the 1980s, a good portion who may have entered illegally, and who have not really integrated into Hungarian society yet. It seems like an instance of vicious-cycle tension: newcomers keeping to themselves because of societal disdain, society feeling disdain because newcomers keep to themselves. Despite this, Chinese restaurants were doing okay business, though not nearly the lunch volume as their US counterparts

Now, America isn't the only country that adores fried Chinese food. In Japan, diners go wild for karaage, Chinese-style fried chicken. According to Maki from Just Hungry, "the word kara refers to China, meaning that this method of preparing chicken originated in Chinese cooking (age means deep-fried)". Like the Chinese, the Japanese also marinate their chicken with ginger "to get rid of any gaminess". (Check out Maki's recipe.)

If biting into the crispy shell of General Tso's chicken releases pent-up sugar, biting into karaage will unleash a dark and brooding mix of soy sauce and sake. Dark meat, skin on, is best. And this is a dish that begs to be washed down with cold sake or beer.

I came across this Edward Hopper painting today and, for a few minutes, tried to connect the image with the name. The painting is evocative of everything I associate with the 1920s: men in suits, chic flappers, and dim stylish interiors. Yet if you look closely, there is a terracotta teapot on the table. And try to decipher the restaurant placard outside the window. The restaurant and painting are both called "Chop Suey".

Ask Americans what comes to mind when they think of the Chinese restaurants. The adjectives you'll most likely get are along the lines of cheap, quick, and dingy with fluorescent lighting. Chinese restaurants are now the culinary equivalent of love motels. 

I'm not talking about banquet halls in Chinatowns that cater to the Chinese, which also tend to be lackluster. I'm talking about restaurants for the other 99.5% of America. Whether they know it or not, these greasy take-outs, Panda Expresses, and P.F. Changs serve as cultural ambassadors for Chinese food and culture. And what they represent is cheap food for the masses, not culinary sophistication.

Almost nobody in Hunan has ever heard of General Tso's Chicken, the most famous Hunan dish in America. Like many other American-Chinese favorites, the roots to China are vague but interesting.

You may know the dish as General Tsuo's, or Tzo's or Tao's or some other variation. You couldn't really pronounce the name, but order it anyway at Panda Garden because of its addictiveness. Who cares if it isn't really Chinese food, like your ABC friend hinted?

General Tso's Chicken became popular in America via some enterprisingly Taiwanese chefs who opened Hunan restaurants in New York in the 1970s. Hunan cuisine is traditionally very spicy, full of smoky chilis and pickled vegetables. But to appeal to American diners, the chefs started deep-frying, and sweetening the sauces. They improved upon each other's crispy chicken dishes until they got a crunchy, sweet, sour, and mildly spicy coating. You can read more about the history in Fuchsia Dunlop's NYT article, or Jennifer 8. Lee's The Fortune Cookie Chronicles; both writers trace the original General Tso's back to Taiwan.

Southeast Asia is a food lover's playground, and no food blog captures the region better than Eating Asia. Robyn Eckhardt and her husband Dave Hagerman have spent the past 4 years hopping around Malaysia, Vietnam, Thailand, and other spots, blogging and freelancing for publications such as The South China Morning Post and Time Out Kuala Kumpur. From banh mi snackdowns to portraits of Penang's cooks and street vendors, Eating Asia's posts reveal a intense passion for both the food and the people behind the food. And the photos will leave anyone starving for more.

How did you become interested in blogging about the cuisines of Asia?

First came an interest in writing about the cuisines of Asia and, following logically from that, a desire to write well about the cuisines of Asia. I wanted to become a better writer but I needed a prod to practice. The blog gave me a reason to sit down in front of the computer on a regular basis and write (the photographer had a similar impetus to blog).

Most Singaporeans I know are about crazy about food, and KianLam Kho is no exception. His blog Red Cook may be just 1 year old, but it has already drawn a number of devotees who hunger for great insight into Chinese home cooking. It's hard not to be seduced by his posts, like this meticulously documented Moon Festival banquet. From stock techniques to a recipe for mouth-watering red-cooked pork, Kian is a pro at "sharing the joy and frustration of cooking Chinese food at home."

What is your earliest memory of Chinese food?

I grew up in Singapore and was exposed early on to many different types of food, including Indonesian, Malay, Indian, Nonya (a local cuisine influenced by Chinese and Malay cooking) and many types of regional Chinese cooking. However, the food served at home was mostly Chinese and heavily influenced by my family's roots in Fujian province. Fujian cooking is generally non-spicy and dominated by seafood. I remember growing up with Fujian-style mustard green rice with dried oyster, red cooked pork (also known as kong bak in Fujian dialect), steamed fish and egg-drop seaweed soup. I also remember our servant making pork floss by slow cooking lean pork in soy sauce and spices over the entire afternoon until the meat disintegrates and dehydrates. We didn't eat Cantonese food at home but would go out to a Cantonese restaurant.

I seem to spend half my waking hours cooking up enormous amounts of Chinese food, and the other half blogging about such endeavors. Which was why I was excited to participate in month's Foodbuzz "24 Hours, 24 Meals, 24 Blogs", a live blogging event in which 24 foodies around the world host and blog an amazing meal on the same day. (Foodbuzz also recently officially launched their Featured Publishing Community. Find out more here.)