I don't understand more than a few words in Mandarin or Cantonese, although my grandmother can read, write and speak both languages. Growing up in the San Gabriel Valley, she only spoke English to me and my sister. She wanted us to know English, be Americans, and experience all the rights and privileges that come with that designation.
As an immigrant, she arrived in Chinatown in Los Angeles as a teenager, with little to her name (only the determination to build a family and a life in the shadow of the great American dream), so I can understand her reasoning. But she wishes she knew the language. Sometimes when I am in a group of people who speak Chinese, I feel like an outsider.
I can manage a greeting and a polite “thank you.” And most importantly, I can order dim sum and many other foods that make me feel connected to my grandmother and the world she comes from.
It can get a little complicated when there are multiple names for a dish, and the correct one usually depends on who you ask and where. There are no less than three names for this week's obsession: zhi ma da bing, da bing or Shànghǎi qiāng bǐng, also known as Chinese scallion and sesame bread, scallion and sesame pancakes or scallion and sesame cake.
I prefer da bing, loosely translated as big cake in Mandarin. Whatever you call it, it's essentially China's answer to focaccia bread.
Signature Green Onion and Sesame Cake at Ahgoo's Kitchen
The signature sesame green onion pie from Ahgoo's Kitchen in Temple City.
(Jenn Harris/Los Angeles Times)
At Ahgoo's, Thomas and Lily Yeh's three-year-old restaurant in Temple City, the signature dish is their signature green onion and sesame pie. On each table is a basket filled with eight triangles of bread as thick as bookends.
Each slice shows a lot of layers packed with green onion. The ratio between bread and allium appears to be one to one. I hope you can enlarge the photos.
The speckled golden crust is a sesame-coated armor, as thin and delicate as the first layer of a scallion pancake. The middle is like a totally different bread, soft and slightly spongy. It manages to be airy and dense with a strong green onion flavor.
I eat the first slice alone, appreciating the texture of the bread, the tiny bubbles along the crust, and all the sesame seeds. I garnish the second slice with a few tablespoons of the chili sauce that is on the table, the condiment is a smooth, toasted sludge of chili and oil.
“My wife is from northern China,” Thomas says. “When she was younger, she learned to do it from her grandfather and her mother.”
Lily makes the dough with flour, yeast, water, salt and large amounts of green onion.
“We put the oil in the pan, then the cake, then the water,” Thomas says.
The crust solidifies into a solid, crispy layer while the middle steams.
Thomas says Lily makes the breads for the restaurant, averaging 50 a day. But he's also familiar with the process.
“I'm from Taiwan and I learned my zufu a long time ago,” he says, referring to his grandfather.
You may want to moderate the rest of your order depending on how many people are at the table. Two slices could easily be a meal on their own.
Or go crazy. The bread is great reheated in a skillet the next morning for breakfast.
Taste of China Sesame and Green Onion Pancake
Zhi ma da bing from Taste of China in Rowland Heights.
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times)
You know how as soon as you're introduced to something or reminded of something, you start seeing it everywhere? For me it was da bing week.
I wasn't at the food court tucked away on the corner of Pacific Plaza in Rowland Heights to dab. I was there to check out the chicken burgers at MBL & Q Burger for a recent column. But after seeing a handful of women folding dumplings at random tables in the middle of the dining room, I decided to investigate.
I saw the sesame and green onion pancakes stacked in a clear display on the counter of a stall called Taste of China. It was a gluten palace that enticed with dozens of buns filled with Chinese leeks, egg, pork and pickled cabbage; fried buns; and rainbow meatballs.
The pancakes were the size of large pizzas, about two inches thick and with golden tops sprinkled with sesame seeds.
The sliced zhi ma da bing from Taste of China in Rowland Heights.
(Jenn Harris / Los Angeles Times)
The pancake was breadier than Ahgoo's Kitchen's version, with a crispy crust that flowed perfectly into the batter beneath.
The green onions were confined in the middle, wrapped in a spongy bun that would spring back at the touch of a finger. The subtle peppery bite of the green onion coated the solid three inches of dough with just enough freshness to encourage a second slice.
You can order your pancake sliced or whole. If you are taking it to enjoy somewhere else, I suggest you order the whole pancake and then slice it right before eating. I couldn't wait and asked to have it cut there.
And yes, this also works for breakfast tomorrow.
