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 have written before about Lan Fong Yuen, the food stall in Hong Kong where pantyhose milk tea was supposedly invented. Sure, it's crowded, gets a lot of tourists, and makes you wait just to snuggle next to strangers. But I love that they still make their milk tea the old-fashioned way, by straining it through stocking-like nets. I also love that everyone can watch. Though the tea guy usually moves so fast that I haven't been able to get a better photo than the one I took in 2006:

At least I can console myself with some nice food close-ups. The pork chop bun up top is one of Lan Fong Yuen's specialties. Pork chop buns (a burger with a fried pork cutlet) originated in Macau, but in the past few decades have become standard cha chaan teng fare in Hong Kong. I still like the Macanese version better, since the bread is a crusty Portuguese roll instead of a sesame bun. But the pork matters most. If I'm in the mood for something fried, juicy, and porky, the wrong bread will not deter me.

Mongkok in Kowloon is more known for its markets and red-light district than restaurants. So earning a Michelin star was a huge achievement for the 4-year-old Ming Court in Langham Place Hotel. Sure, there was some controvery last year when the first Hong Kong Michelin guide came out, over how Michelin ignored more Chinese-oriented, low-end restaurants with fabulous food.

But really, we all know that Michelin always skewers high end, no matter which country, and has certain standards for service and cleanliness. It won't give a star to my favorite dai pai dong, which doesn't fit with the Michelin image. For great local picks I'll turn to HK guides or my family, but there's no denying a Michelin rating is great international press for a restaurant.

If you have never been to Macau, or Restaurante Litoral, I urge you to get on a plane or ferry this instant.

Macanese food is one of the best little-known cuisines I have come across. It dates back almost 500 years, from when the Portuguese settled on a little peninsula of fishing villages and married into local Chinese families. Over time, the Portuguese-Chinese fusion picked up influences from around Southeast Asia and other colonies in Africa, Goa, and Brazil. One of the best spots in Macau to taste real Macanese cooking is Restaurante Litoral, a beautiful two-storey restaurant on Rua do Almirante Sérgio.

The upstairs dining was enormous (the owners also took over the 2nd floor of the next building), but because of the slideable wooden doors, it still felt intimate. Litoral is a rare restaurant that can be popular with both locals and tourists; my companions were two British expats who have lived in Macau since the early 1980s, and claim this restaurant serves the best Macanese dishes.

Caldo verde (potato and kale soup, in top photo) is similar to the Portuguese original, but instead of kale the locals use the more abundant bok choy. Though like the Portuguese, we doused the tops of our soups with extra olive oil.

(Braised lamb at Kuen Fat Restaurant)

I ate a lot of casseroles on my last visit to Hong Kong. The weather wasn't particularly cold, but for some reason the restaurants my relatives chose for Chinese New Year get-togethers came with a lot of casserole specials. Not that I minded. Braised meats and sauces over rice are comfort food heaven.

Kuen Fat Restaurant in Sai Wan Ho is one of those rowdy, Chinese-menu-only restaurants where the Harbin beer girl comes around with your booze in a bucket. You almost need earplugs for all the high-decibel Cantonese conversation around you. We ordered 7 dishes, including 6 casseroles, some set over flames to maintain the heat. The lamb casserole had a nice light broth, less likely to put you in a food coma than Beijing or Dongbei lamb dishes. But the lamb needed about 15 minutes more of braising to be as tender as I'd like. The braised chicken with chestnuts, though, was well-cooked and coated in a slightly caramelized, just-thick-enough sauce.

(Braised chicken with chestnuts at Kuen Fat Restaurant)

(Fish tacos, Taqueria El Zorro)

There are few things more wonderful in life than fish tacos from a California taqueria.

San Francisco bookended my 6-week holiday visit to the US. Tampa had great Cuban food and Southern barbecue, and Salinas Valley has perfected grilled meats, but the Bay area had everything I sorely missed while living in Beijing. With the recession in full swing, I spent a week trying out a wide range of cheap eats in and around San Francisco. Here are some new-to-me favorites.

(Tacos al pastor, Taqueria La Morena)

Mexican - In New York you cannot find tacos like these, except maybe if you trekked out to Jackson Heights on the 7 train at 11pm to seek out taco trucks. Most Mexican food in California isn't very Americanized, unlike in the rest of the country. These are simple hand-sized soft tortillas, piled with meat, freshly diced onions, cilantro, and (often) homemade salsas. If you fork out more than $3 for a non-seafood taco, you're paying too much.

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.