The Olympics are well under way, and the opening ceremony taken place yet. Yesterday we attended a US vs. Japan football game in Tianjin, half an hour from Beijing on the new bullet train. (Which, with a fast speed of 350 km per hour, still pales in comparison to TGV and Shinkansen trains. But a great development nonetheless.)

The stadium at Tianjin is brand new, enormous, and quite impressive. The crowd was mainly Chinese, almost all of whom were supporting the US; unfortunately, historical resentment of Japan still prevails. Behind us sat an adorable Japanese family whose toddlers were waving Japanese flags and whose dad had a straw hat with both the US and Japanese flags poking out. There were a few Americans in the 35,000-person crowd, about 15 of us scattered around. This is what happens when you come from a country where nobody plays soccer after the age of 12.

I was sitting in the nosebleed section; the telephoto lens came in handy as binoculars.

Although Japan was the favorite coming into the match, the US ended up winning 1 to 0. A few Americans ran around shirtless, much to the amusement of the Chinese. 

It's fitting that a country so obsessed with kimchi would have a museum devoted to it. On one of our last days in Seoul Jacob and I took the subway to the COEX Mall, which housed the Kimchi Field Museum in the basement.

The place was rather small, but included a small tasting room and the standard "history of" and "how to make" displays. Over a hundred plastic models of various kinds of kimchi took up a third of the museum. I would probably have expected the shrimp, cod gills, and ginseng kimchi. But pickled pumpkin? Persimmon? Pheasant? The museum was indeed an eye-opener. 

Mall food in Asia tends to be of higher quality than its counterpart in the west, so it wasn't surprising we found Korean restaurant inside COEX that served a nice bubbling beansprout rice stew...

...along with the requisite 5 or 6 side dishes.

One of the most memorable things I ate last week was in Hongdae, the funky district around Hongik University. We found a pod-like little glass box of a restaurant amidst higher concrete buildings. You are free to draw all over the tables, and are given pens to do so.

(Bibim naengmyun)

My week-long trip to Seoul turned me from a recreational dabbler of Korean food to a full-on addict. Now that I'm home and about 10 pounds heavier, I can't stop thinking about bibimbap, dakgalbi (pan-fried chicken), bibim naengmyun (cold noodles with Korean chilli paste), among others.

The first thing I ate after landing in Seoul was dolsot bibimbap, presented in a hot stone pot so the rice on the sides become crispy and the raw egg on top cooks as you mix everything. This was at a traditional Korean restaurant in Insadong where the seats are cushions on an ondol wooden floor. A nice experience, but certainly not the most comfortable.

I instantly fell in love with the spicy seafood bean paste stew, which I apparently forgot to photograph in my state of rapture.

(Dolsot bibimbap)

(Side rant: As my luck would have it, when I started uploading photos after returning home, my card reader started acting funky and ejected in the middle of the upload. Unfortunately, the mishap caused about 100 photos, including everything from my last day at Noryangjin Fish Market, to disappear. This is what I get for buying cheap card readers in China.)

As much as I love writing about cooking and restaurants, the food geek in me gets the most pleasure from going straight to the source of any food product. I had already been to a number of wineries, breweries, organic farms and Big Ag farms. But tea fields had always been on my list of unfulfilled dream destinations. Some people fantasize about sunbathing on tropical beaches, I fantasized about hiking up terraced hillsides in muggy climates to see tea farmers in action.

Two weekends ago, when I was in Hangzhou, I was surprised to find out just how accessible the nearby tea fields were. I knew that Hangzhou was well-known for producing Dragon Well, or Longjing tea, one of the most prized teas in China. But for some reason I had imagined the tea plantations to be far outside the city, and that visiting required either booking an overpriced tour or days of advanced planning.

I had first heard about Hong Kong's Cheung Chau Bun Festival by watching My Life as McDull, an existential cartoon about a Hong Kongese pig who trains to climb a mountain of Chinese steamed buns. A mountain of Chinese steamed buns!?! At first I thought such a thing was made up, until I saw real black & white footage of climbers interspersed with the animation. How odd, I thought.

Coincidentally, Jacob and I were in Hong Kong for Buddha's Birthday, the holiday on which the annual Bun Festival takes place on the island of Cheung Chau. There was supposed to be a parade, some other festivities, and the climbing competition at midnight. As a foodie who revels in weird food festivals, I had to go, mostly to see how they construct a mountain of buns.

We hopped on a ferry from Central along with 95% of Hong Kong island, and an hour later arrived on the banks of the small fishing village. The first thing we saw outside the ferry terminal were crowds of people waiting for the parade.

Over the weekend, Jacob and I stayed at a friend's lane house in Shanghai's French Concession. It's a live-work space that is occupied by a web company, and all the techies is get their caffeine and sugar fixes from Paul, a French bakery that opened in the city last year. (I'm sure in Paris Paul is considered average, but in Shanghai a Western bakery can't be found on every corner.) Every morning we were in Shanghai one of us would make a Paul run, and come back with croissants, rolls, etc.

On Saturday, just as I was about to step out to meet my cousin for a soup dumpling lunch, J came through the door with two enormous bags. One was from Paul and was filled with Danishes, doughnuts, olive rolls, and a ham sandwich on baguette. The other was from Mr. Donut; it had a selection of large and mini doughnuts, and a little cardboard caddy of macarons.

"I didn't know Mister Donut made macarons," I said.

J shrugged. "They were 7 kuai. It's worth a try."

I just got back from a long weekend in Shanghai, where I fit in as much good eating as I could in 4 days. One place that had been on my must-visit list for a looooong time was Jia Jia Tang Bao, reportedly one of the best places for xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) in Shanghai. And since Shanghai claims xiaolongbao as a native food (others would argue that it orginated from surrounded towns), some afficionados think Jia Jia Tang Bao has some of the best in the world.

The ideal xiaolongbao, for the uninitiated, should have very thin, almost translucent skin, and equal parts soup and filling inside. I dream about these dumplings, and have tried so many poor versions that I want to cry every time. Often the skin is too think, sometimes there's not enough soup. When you are eating a perfect xiaolongbao, you should be worried about your clothes getting soup stains from a squirty dumpling.

In my previous trips to Macau, I had only explored the Central and Southern parts of Macau island. On Valentine's Day, Jacob and I took another day trip to the former Portuguese colony and headed to a part that wasn't engulfed in casino and resort construction. After crossing the border, we hopped on a free shuttle to Hotel Lisboa, and from there caught a bus to Coloane, Macau's southernmost island.

Coloane is a tiny, laid-back island that is a great antidote to Central Macau's bustling streets. I, for one, was glad to get away from the diesel fumes and noise of motorcycle engines. (Motorcycles were out in full force yesterday, probably Spring Festival vacationers expending last bits of pent-up energy before starting work again.) Coloane Village is a nice place to walk around for an hour and admire the low-lying buildings that fuse Portuguese and Chinese styles. I was reminded of little villages in Lantau and Hong Kong's New Territories, where people leave their doors open and you can peak in and see what locals are eating for lunch, or watching on TV. (Not that I peak, of course.)

Native Hong Kongers and savvy travelers know that some of the best food, the kind you crave at 3pm or 3am, is not found at elaborate banquet halls or pricey fusion establishments. The best food is the kind Hong Kongers would make for themselves, if they only had the time. The city's noodle shops and coffee chops, called cha chaan tengs, provide the backbone of comfort food for people who are always on the move, but still like to duck into a place to relax and eat for a while.

Daisanne McLane has a good article in this week's New York Times on cha chaan tengs. These basic hole-in-the-walls, usually outfitted with formica tables and worn booths or plastic chairs, provide a kind of comforting nostalgia for the food and an old way of life. The menu usually consists of both Cantonese staples like beef brisket noodles and holdovers from HK's colonial days, like toast slathered with thickened sweet condensed milk. Wonton soup, another cha chaan teng staple, is something I could eat every other day and not get sick of. (If you can't make it to Hong Kong or have a good Cantonese restaurant in your town, see my recipe on making your own wontons.)

Hong Kong's shopping scene has long been more than just glitzy malls and department stores. Open-air night markets like the one on Temple Street has long drawn both locals and tourists in search of bargains and a little fun.

Located in Tsim Sha Tsui near the Jordan and Yau Ma Tei subway stops, Temple Street transforms into a circus of bargain ware after dark. There are so many stalls you will need at least half and hour to an hour to walk through, if you don't stop. You can get kitschy trinkets, clothes, DVDs, and toys, and even those kinds of DVDs and toys. (This is one of the few places in the world where you can walk around outdoors and see someone haggling over $5 for a toy usually sold in curtained shops.) And of course, there are the requisite Mao souvenirs, for irony, of course.

Other than shopping, you can also listen to Cantopop sung by people at makeshift karaoke stands, or visit one of the 20 or 30 fortune tellers. Or eat at one of the many street hawker stands or restaurants.