What should you do about mold on your food?
To complain or not complain? That is the question.
And does it matter whether you’re in a Chinese restaurant (where they may or may not speak English that well) or a less “foreign” one?
Allow me to explain.
Here’s the scenario:
You’re driving to Los Angeles.
Part of your tradition is always to stop in the San Gabriel Valley (Monterey Park, Alhambra, etc.) for some dim sum fun.
You’ve been doing this since 1991 — decades before Instagrammers and Yelpers discovered the place, and long before Jonathon Gold made it cool to go there.
In other words, you know what to expect: huge, open rooms, packed with Asian families of all stripes, and rolling carts (or menus) filled with a mind-blowing assortment of small bites, steamed, fried, and baked goodies straight from the Cantonese playbook.
You also know that kitchen hygiene can be a rather flexible concept in certain Asian restaurants. But no matter, the food is usually spectacular (especially compared with the meager dim sum offerings of Vegas), so you look past these shortcomings.
Every time you come to the SGV, you try to hit a new joint. On your last trip you made it to Sea Harbour and it was spectacular.
This time, you decide to try a place that’s received some buzz called Lunasia Dim Sum House.
You get up early so you can get there when it opens, because these places get nuts around lunch time, especially on weekends.
You’re super excited (and starving) when you drive up, especially when you score a parking spot right in front of it.
Right away, you see it checks all the boxes:
Giant crowded room full of Asians – check
Fish tanks brimming with crabs and other creatures of the sea – check
Smells like soy, steam, shrimp, and Shanghai – check
People scurrying about with trays full of delicious looking dumplings – check
Everyone smiling as they stuff their maw with har gow, shu mai, don tot, and char siu bao – check
Chopsticks flying across tables in a pitched battle for the last bite — check
All of this gets you very excited. But then, just to pee in your cornflakes, The Food Gal® — a clean freak but also someone with (slightly) bendable standards when it comes to certain, hyper-delicious Chinese food — notices the sign on the front door:
“Are you sure you want to go here?” she asks. But you are undaunted — you wade right in, confident it was simply the kind of misdemeanor that would fade from consciousness as soon as your table was swamped by a tsunami of dim sum umami.
And it did, and for a while, it was.
For a while, you were transported by golf ball-sized sui-mai:
Concupiscent spicy clams:
…and delectable don tot:
It wasn’t the best dim sum we’d had by a long shot. But it hit the spot, even if it fell short of Elite, Ocean Star or Sea Harbour excellence.
As you know, dim sum can be a willy-nilly eating experience. Everything shows up in random order, and you might find yourself slurping a beautiful almond milk-puff pastry sweet soup — or those warm-from-the-oven Macao-style custard cups — before you’re done with the savories. No matter, when it’s all good, it’s all good.
Right up until it isn’t.
Because of that delicious chaos, sometimes you circle back to a savory after a sweet. Which is what we did with these peppery stuffed peppers:
They were hot — that innocuous-looking black pepper sauce was a scorcher — but they were also real good, so you want to tackle one more before pushing away from the table.
One bite and you know something is wrong. Where before there was pillowy minced shrimp on bright green, herbaceous pepper, now there is an moldy, old, damp and musty taste in your mouth. The textures are still right, but the aftertaste is of dank cardboard — as if you’d just licked a fuzzy petri dish.
It turns out you had.
Tearing the top off of the pepper, there was the culprit: staring at you like a fungal funhouse of funky mold — the kind you grow in labs, the kind vegetables grow by themselves when they’re left too long to their own, organic devices:
Is this a cardinal sin for a restaurant? Not really. But it shows a certain sloppiness. The kind that gets a “C” grade from the health inspector.
Does it give your wife a gigantic “I told you so”?
Of course it does. And she ain’t lettin’ you forget it for a long time to come.
Was it worth pointing it out to the management? Ah, there’s the rub and the dilemma.
Would it have resulted in them taking $7.88 off the bill? Maybe, but only after discussions, delays and sideways glances, and having to convince them you weren’t trying to get a free meal out of the ordeal.
There might also be debate over what it was. No restaurant is going to willingly admit it serves moldy food, so you’d have to be ready for an argument…an argument that could be won if they’d take a bite out of that musty-dusty pepper….which, most assuredly they would not.
Then you have to consider: will your complaint cause them to clean up their act?
Probably not. If the “C” grade didn’t do it, showing them some fungi fuzz tap dancing on their produce won’t.
So you pay the bill in silence….all $76.28 of it.
But you won’t be back, even though you were probably never going to go back anyway. And now your California food fantasies are a little less fanciful. There is no dim sum Santa Claus in San Gabriel, and you’ve learned no matter how rave-worthy some of it is, some of them are cutting the same corners as everyone else.
And it’ll be a cold day in hell before your wife lets you walk into another low-rated restaurant.
1 thought on “Dim Sum Dilemma”
I’m pretty much in agreement with you except for one thing. If I see a C, I’m done with the place. Game over. I will not go in there. Usually when I do have a bad experience at a place my reaction is similar. I stop eating, pay the bill, and never return. Of course if *I* had a nationally famous food blog, I’d likely post about my experiences, but, alas, I don’t.
I used to live in Alhambra, though. There were some fine places to eat up and down Valley Boulevard. The Las Vegas food scene has improved significantly since I moved here, but I haven’t found anything in the United States that quite compares to the San Gabriel Valley.
Comments are closed.