FOR A COUPLE, is there a more loaded question than What’s for dinner?
When my wife texts this question at 2 p.m., I know she’s deciding whether or not to have cookies at the office. If I tell her I’m making one of her favourites, I might get a heart emoji response, perhaps even a “My hero!” A less descriptive “Yum,” or the follow up “Do we have salsa?” means that my dinner planning has not satisfied her emotional needs in that moment.
For Toronto restaurateur David Schwartz and his wife Lee-Tal Hatuka, the answer of what’s for dinner is almost always Chinese. The couple, recently married and expecting a baby, live in downtown’s Chinatown. Two of the three restaurants where Schwartz is co-owner and executive chef (MIMI Chinese, Sunnys Chinese) are dedicated to the regional specialties of Chinese cooking, which has so far been the central focus of his career. (The third, the recently opened Linny’s, is inspired by the deli-style food he grew up with, and showcases high-end takes on chopped liver and pastrami.) Schwartz is following a long tradition of Jews in love with Chinese food. Joshua Eli Plaut, who serves as rabbi of Metropolitan Synagogue in New York, wrote a book — A Kosher Christmas — which (as you might expect from the title) explores this affinity. He dates it back to the turn of the twentieth century, when the two immigrant groups lived in close proximity in New York’s Lower East Side. “Jews would
go out for Chinese food on Sundays, when they felt left out of church lunch,” he told VOX in 2020. Plaut cites the lack of dairy in Chinese cuisines in explaining the Jewish embrace of Chinese restaurants over the Italian options that were also prominent in the neighbourhood. Italian cooking’s frequent mixing of cheese and meat, along with the Christian iconography common in those spaces, made them a much less accessible option. Chinese restaurants were also a place where Jews could indulge in “safe treyf” — a term coined by sociologist Gaye Tuchman for foods that may contain non-kosher ingredients such as pork or shellfish, but finely minced, or sufficiently hidden by a dumpling’s exterior, to give plausible
deniability to the eater.
Though Schwartz is passionate about his noodle commitments — which his wife doesn’t share — these marital differences are fortunately not irreconcilable. “When we [would] go to Cantonese restaurants,” says Schwartz, “it took a lot of practice for us to get to a place where we had an order down that was agreeable for both of us.”
If marriage is about compromise, then finding the perfect sharing order with your spouse in a restaurant can be a Churchillian feat of negotiation. You’re
both hungry, and therefore less rational than usual. Pushing too hard for the dishes you want, could breed resentment with a negotiating partner who you will
sleep next to that night, and for the rest of your life. “Why did I let you get that lamb dish?” is not something anyone wants to hear shouted at them from the bathroom at 2 a.m. “We have different preferences,” says Schwartz. “I like things with the grapple factor. She doesn’t.”
Grapple factor refers to foods that require more work to eat, compared to the North American expectation of proteins that are free of bones, shells, fat, or chew. This is Schwartz’ sweet spot. At dim sum, I’ve watched him immediately tick off the boxes for chicken feet and beef tendon.
“For example, a dish my dad and I used to always get at Swatow that I can only really eat when I’m not with Tal, because she will not indulge me in it, is their chicken hotpot,” says Schwartz. “Imagine eating chicken wings — cut into thirds,
fried and braised, and put in a sizzling pot with bamboo and black mushroom — with chopsticks. And the skin is tight. It’s not crispy. She hates it because it’s a lot of work. But I love it because it’s a lot of work.”
Hatuka, meanwhile, has her own preferences.
“She always wanted the battered fried stuff like lemon chicken or sesame chicken. Or another one that we battled over, that I’ll just never give into: Shanghai noodles, which have nothing to do with Shanghai. They’re branded that way on the bag by the company that makes them, but they’re nowhere to be found in Shanghai.” At Swatow Restaurant, a few blocks from their home, the couple has resolved their dinner order, which may be one of the greatest relationship investments they’ll ever make.
“We’ll interchange some things here and there. But, for the most part, we’ve got our staples,” says Schwartz. “We’re always getting the scrambled egg with shrimp and rice, ho fun (rice noodles), the Canadian broccoli with garlic sauce and shrimp, and wonton soup. Very specific. We’re fine tuned.”
If you ask a Jewish chef about food they’re emotionally attached to, you can’t be surprised when they name Chinese dishes, and you therefore cannot be surprised if those dishes traditionally include pork or shellfish. But this dish is less about the addition of shrimp and more about the use of cornstarch and the technique of cooking the eggs, known as Whampoa chao dan. Though often billed on menu as “scrambled eggs on rice,” it’s closer in texture to an omelette.
The first time I made this dish, I was not prepared for how familiar it tasted for something I’d never eaten before. That first spoonful of egg, warm and slippery, slid down and comforted me as much as any bowl of chicken soup. Maybe it’s the MSG in the instant stock mix, reminding me of the Cantonese food of my youth. If you want to try it without the shrimp, any salty protein would be satisfying. However, I wouldn’t substitute anything else, but instead just focus on the texture of the eggs, a goal that took me a half dozen attempts to achieve. Blended with a thickening cornstarch slurry and cooked on a low heat to avoid too much colouring, Swatow’s eggs are bright yellow and saucy, studded with frozen peas instead of the usual scallions. They glisten like an oiled bodybuilder, likely the effect of an additional ladle of gravy poured over top.
“We eat it a lot. It’s very much a tradition for my wife and I, almost a weekly occurrence. But when Tal and I get sick, like now,” says Schwartz as Hatuka coughs, almost on queue. “She loves it. I love it.”
Huá Dàn Xiā Rén: Scrambled Eggs on Rice
Serves two
Ingredients
- cornstarch
- Shaoxing cooking wine
- water
- chicken stock powder
- 4 eggs
- pinch of salt and pepper
- sesame oil
- scallions or frozen peas
- vegetable oil (or schmaltz)
- bowl of cooked jasmine rice
- chili oil (optional)
Instructions
- To make a slurry, whisk a small spoonful of cornstarch in a mixing bowl with a splash of cooking wine and water. Add the eggs and beat for a minute, until the yellow is totally mixed in and bubbles begin to form. Stir in pinches of chicken stock, salt, and pepper, then mix in the sesame oil and peas (yes, from frozen).
- Since this dish is made with chicken stock, chicken fat is an amazing fat to pair with it if you have some on hand — otherwise, vegetable oil works nicely. Heat whatever fat you are using in a wok to medium heat.
- Remove the wok from the heat and add the egg mixture. To attain supreme silkiness, the key is not to flip or turn the egg, which will result in in scrambled eggs. Instead, as the egg begins to solidify at the bottom, gently scoop with your spatula and layer on top of other cooked portions, tilting the wok so liquid egg fills in the spaces. Close to an omelette in texture, the appearance of the delicate layers should more resemble the folds of a soft sweater loosely tossed onto a bed. Repeat this process without too much agitation, moving the wok on and off the heat. In a few minutes, you’ll have a heap of egg that is cooked through, with a surface that is still slightly wet and shiny. Slide that from the wok and serve over cooked rice, with chili oil if you are so inclined.
