The San Francisco China Town is no different to this. The largest one outside of Asia as well as the oldest in North America, it sprawls over 24 blocks, a hive of activity and one which I was excited to see. I peeked in markets where Asian mothers and grandmothers haggled over exotic vegetables and scurried past the reek of the fish markets, pungent at dusk, my sister squealing
from liquids leaking into flip flops.
I joined the queue for a particularly lauded Chinese bakery and ate a custard tart, fresh from the oven that the proprietor pressed on me eagerly, which was slightly different in texture to the British type I am familiar with but equally delicious. The aforementioned Peking ducks flapped at me from the windows and I pondered on whether one might survive the 10 hour drive the next day along Big Sur to Santa Monica.
We ordered Pot Stickers, fried dumplings served with a filling of savoury pork, vegetable and spicing, together with Steamed Pork Dumplings to start with. Both were divine. The Pot Stickers were juicy with firm, salty pastry and a tasty filling, eloquently spiced. The Pork Dumplings were also great – soft, gooey dough pastry, white and almost translucent like a jelly fish, filled with little pork balls and lots of juice. We fell upon them like starving animals.