I've been thinking a lot recently about how the names of Chinese foods vary so much between China and the US.

One example is lemon chicken. In Southern China, lemon chicken usually means a whole bone-in chicken, steamed, chopped up, and served with a light lemon sauce. In the US, you'd get perfect cubes or slices of breast meat that has been fried and coated with a thick lemon sauce. (In other words, more like this.) A few places, like this takeout spot in Park Slope, may serve you something that looks like a lemon chicken kit that you put together: breaded and fried chicken with little seasoning, on top of some iceberg lettuce, and a container of something that's more or less lemon simple syrup.

Another example is Mongolian beef. In Beijing, Mongolian-style lamb or beef is stir-fried with toasted cumin seeds and whole red chilis. In the US, what has become Mongolian beef lacks any whole spices, but is pretty tasty in its own right. The only thing similar to its mainland Chinese cousin is the thinly sliced steak and abundance of leeks. The sauce, when done well, is pretty terrific. The beauty of Mongolian beef sauce is that none of the flavors stand out on their own, but rather, come together (as the Chinese would say) "harmoniously".

My electricity bill these past two months has been frightening. Living in a building with only two units that is considered a "house" by ConEdison's standards, my roommate and I have had to pay double the monthly amount of typical apartment tenants. And it doesn't help that we have three air conditioners. We try to use them a little as possible, but with July's record high temps and oppressive humidity, a little AC meant the difference between good night's rest and no sleep.

And of course, I can't not cook at home. As somewhat of a carb addict, 75% of my homecooked dinners, let's just be honest, involve noodles or pasta. But the noodle soups will have to wait until fall.

Cold noodles, on the other hand, are essential for the summer. They make great picnic food. They make great sides for cookouts. They are the same savory-sweet kind you get from the Chinese takeout, with less grease and no MSG. And they require very little prep time and don't even have to be reheated out of the fridge (within a reasonable number of days, of course.)

Most sane people keep a drawer full of delivery menus for the sole purpose of...ordering delivery. I too have a menu drawer, but can count on two hands the number of times I have actually ordered delivery in the past few years.

Call me a bad New Yorker.  I'm pretty good with picking up takeout while out somewhere, but dialing from home is another story. Being so dangerously close to the kitchen, I usually wind up studying the menu for half an hour, choosing an entree, then deciding, screw this, I can make the same dish, except way better.

This hubris usually leads me to spend another couple of hours ransacking my cabinets, schlepping to the grocery store, figuring out a strategy, then executing it. Even if it is already past 9pm and I'm starving. Sure, it would have been easier and about 1 hour and 50 minutes faster to just call the damn Golden Panda Dynasty, but definitely not as satisfying. Or so I tell myself.

I wonder if delivery menu one-upmanship can be classified as a psychological disorder. 

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.

I grew up with two kinds of sweet and sour pork. Like any American child living in close proximity to a Chinese take-out, I ate a good amount of Ping-pong ball-sized pork laced with red food coloring and accompanied by canned pineapple. At home, my mother would also prepare her version, using bone-in chunks of pork encased flavored with a subtler orange-vinegar sauce. 

In Beijing, I once took a home-style cooking class in which the teacher revealed that her  secret ingredient for sweet and sour pork, also what "the better restaurants in Beijing use", was a bottle of locally produced ketchup. Why not the American brand Heinz? Too sweet.

Sweet and sour pork is thought to have originated in Guangdong province. But now that the Cantonese have flung themselves afar, each place they have landed has its own local variation. I'm sure Canada, the UK, Austalia, and other immigration hot spots have slightly different sweet and sour composites. 

While I sometimes complain about Chinese food in the U.S., there are certain foods and restaurants I love and miss. One such place is a tiny kosher restaurant near Boston that serves unabashedly Americanized Chinese food. The food was good in the low-brow indulgent way that Kewpie mayonnaise and powdered Milo on ice cream are good. And given the depressing state of "authentic" Chinese food in the Boston area, I ended up eating there about every other week during my college career.

Taam China was close to my very Jewish university, so it seems that everyone who patronized the restaurant either attended or graduated from the same school. I was frequently the only Asian face there other than the staff's, which probably lent the place a tiny whiff of authenticity for the duration of my meal.