The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

The Grand Street train station smells of fish. When I ascend the stairs in Chinatown, I find myself confronting the throng on the corner contemplating and vying for the vast array of seafood for sale. Much of it sits outside the stores, displayed in an assortment of receptacles, leaving little space to navigate the sidewalk. There are nearly a dozen varieties and sizes of shrimp and prawns – some sold heads-on and bringing to mind miniature lobsters. Live crabs stretch and climb over each other, sometimes toppling over the edge of the squat grey tubs in which they are piled. I watch as one skittles across the pavement toward freedom. There are tiny cockles, long thin razor clams, sleek black mussels, littlenecks, huge chowder clams, squid, octopus, conch, scallops, frogs, and eel. Whole fish, from silvery little sardines and sprats to cod, snapper, and sole lie in slippery pyramids on beds of crushed ice.

As I head up Grand toward Hester Street for my acupuncture session, I pass nearly identical stalls selling glossy brown chestnuts, fruit, and vegetables such as bitter melon, lotus root, Chinese broccoli, bok choy, mung bean sprouts, turnips, starchy taro root, long beans, snow peas, and shiny, slender lavender colored eggplants. Besides the usual bananas, oranges, mango, and apples there are more exotic fare such as nubby lychees the size of large marbles, bright pink dragon fruit, clusters of giant grapes, and mangoesteen.

The prices are astounding – half of what I pay in the Village, just a couple of miles away.

Each block has at least one shop selling herbal remedies. Buckets of knobby  ginseng root are everywhere, as well as tonics, liniments, and every imaginable medicinal ingredient. Sales people stand in front of cabinets consisting of at least a hundred drawers that contain whole herbs, bark, and roots such as angelica, antler, chrysanthemum, ginkgo leaf, lycii berries, and red clover. An herbalist sits in the back of the store, administering prescriptions which the customer hands to the sales people. Each “dose” is placed on a sheet of white paper and folded into a packet. At home, the herbs are steeped into a horrifically bitter tasting and smelly brew and drunk like tea.

And speaking of tea, there are immaculate shops with shelf after shelf of identical bronze-colored canisters of loose leaf black, green, and white teas from various provinces in China. My favorite, aromatic jasmine pearls, which are tight little balls that unfurl in a cup of hot water, sell for a whopping $42 a pound. Each canister is neatly labeled with the name of the tea and there are hundreds of varieties.

I pass little grocery stores stocked with silky fresh rice noodles and dried cellophane, vermicelli, lo mein, and bean thread noodles, blocks of tofu, shitake mushrooms, jars of preserved vegetables, jasmine and sticky rice, and sauces such as sweet and smoky hoisin, garlic chile, oyster, and black bean. Larger Asian food emporiums like Kam Man on Canal Street and The Deluxe Food Market on Elizabeth carry every imaginable (and some hard to fathom) ingredient you might crave.

And then there are Chinese restaurants. Lacquered-looking mahogany colored ducks hang in the windows, and men in white caps hack at roast pork with huge wooden-handled cleavers. Women deftly produce stuffed wantons and dumplings at break-neck speed. I peer into one place where bluish flames shoot up the sides of woks black with the patina of use and slick with oil. A chef tosses ginger and garlic into a wok, then adds roughly chopped Chinese broccoli. After a few quick flips with his metal spatula, he turns it onto a plate in a neat stack and drizzles thick brown oyster sauce over the top in a zig-zag motion.

At the Grand Meridian, where Stacey, my acupuncturist, works, I enter through the Kamwo Herb and Tea Company. I buy a few packages of mentholated Tiger Balm patches to apply to my shoulders and lower back when I turn in for the night and then head to the calm of the offices and await the application of the long, thin needles. After a dozen or so needles are popping out of my neck, back, ankles, and wrists, the light is dimmed and Stacey instructs me, “Concentrate on your body. Picture a white light entering your head and moving the stagnant blood. Force the negative energy out and release it through your feet.”

In the darkened room I try to breathe deeply and evenly. I imagine a frosty white light forcing its way through my skull. Then, abruptly, I am thinking about buying some cellophane noodles and picking up a few baby bok choy at the shop next store. I force myself back to my body and imagine the light pushing the blood through my veins in a steady flow. My mind wanders again and I am contemplating a half pound of large pink shrimp. The door opens gently and Stacey inquires, “Are you doing okay?” “Yes,” I murmur. Back to the body, I prompt myself. Let the bad vibes and ill-health out. Flush it out, I command. I breathe in and out slowly. I picture the white light. I imagine my blood flowing. I wonder how I’ll cook the shrimp.

Cellophane Noodle Soup with Shrimp Balls

Serves 4 as a first course

For hard to find ingredients such as cellophane noodles, chili garlic sauce, and dried shitake mushrooms, try one of my favorite sources: Kalustyan’s, at 123 Lexington Avenue in Manhattan, has an extensive selection of Indian, Middle Eastern, and Asian ingredients.

For shrimp balls:

(Makes approx. 16 – 20 shrimp balls)

½ pound large shrimp, shelled and deveined

2 scallions, white part only, finely minced

2 teaspoons finely minced fresh cilantro

¼ teaspoon Asian sesame oil (preferably toasted)

1 teaspoon soy sauce

¼ teaspoon Chinese cooking wine or sherry

3 teaspoons corn starch

Place the shrimp in the bowl of a food processor and pulse two or three times to form a chunky paste. Add all the other ingredients and pulse once to incorporate. Alternately, you can chop the shrimp as finely as possible by hand with a chef’s knife, scrape it into a bowl and add the other ingredients. With wet hands, roll the shrimp paste into small balls (the size of large marbles) and place on a plate. Cover lightly with plastic wrap and chill for at least fifteen minutes (or up to a couple of hours).

For garnish:

2 scallions, white and green part, thinly sliced on the diagonal

2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, finely chopped

For soup:

4 cups chicken broth

1 ounce dried shitake mushrooms

3 scallions, white and green part, cut into fourths

½ bunch fresh cilantro, roots attached

1 3” piece fresh ginger root, peeled, cut on the diagonal into ¼” slices and lightly smashed

1 teaspoon soy sauce

¼ teaspoon Asian sesame oil (preferably toasted)

¼ teaspoon Vietnamese or Chinese chili garlic sauce

1/8 teaspoon salt

2 – 3 ounces dried cellophane noodles

4 ounces (1/4 pound) fresh shitake (or cremini) mushrooms, stems discarded, and caps sliced thinly

1 tablespoon vegetable or canola oil

Pour the chicken broth into a medium sized stock pot. Add the dried mushrooms, scallions, cilantro, and ginger. Bring to the boil, then immediately lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook, uncovered, for 20 minutes. Turn off heat and add soy sauce, sesame oil, salt, and chili garlic sauce. Strain solids, discard them, and return liquid to pot. Meanwhile, place cellophane noodles into a large bowl and cover with boiling water. Let soak 20 minutes, drain, rinse with cold water, and set aside. Sauté sliced fresh mushrooms in vegetable oil, over medium-high heat, about 3 minutes, until cooked through and lightly colored. Set aside. Remove shrimp balls from fridge. Bring broth back to the boil. Gently add shrimp balls to soup and cook for about 3 minutes, until just cooked through. Add reserved noodles and cooked shitake mushrooms to broth. Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with chopped scallions and cilantro. Serve immediately.