When, in around 280 A.D., the renowned Jin-dynasty writer Zuo Si took note of hot pot in his poem “Three Capitals Rhapsody,” he could scarcely have predicted that what was even then a culinary classic—in which diners cook raw ingredients in a boiling communal broth—would far outlive all three of the kingdoms to which he devoted his verses. Nor could he have imagined that Chengdu, one of the ancient capitals to which he paid homage, would become embroiled in a long-running feud with Chongqing, Sichuanese hot pot’s presumed birthplace, over which city truly embodies the soul of the region’s most distinctive cuisine.
Da Long Yi does not disappoint with the variety and the freshness of its offerings. Here, from left to right, are enoki mushrooms; pork kidney, cut into flowery shapes that vaguely resemble miniature porcupines; and pig artery, served in pearly-white, curling slices.
Now, in 2019, the rivalry has arrived in New York, where hot-pot franchises with varying allegiances battle for hearts and stomachs across the city’s boroughs. When Da Long Yi, a hot-pot chain reputed to be one of Chengdu’s finest, opened its first American outpost, in Manhattan’s Chinatown, in May, it led with the tagline “Let the world fall in love with Chengdu’s flavor!” In Chinese, da means big, and long means dragon, a sacred symbol of the emperor, alluding to Chengdu’s imperious sense of itself as a place of cultural refinement, and to its scorn for Chongqing’s salt-of-the-earth proletariat. Yi, which is composed of the Chinese character for “fire” aggressively stacked one on top of another four times, conjures the kind of flavorful, flame-licked intensity that does not tolerate indifference.
Traditionally, hot-pot vessels—often shaped like a yin-yang wheel—are designed to serve two stocks: one with chilies, one without.
Traditionally, hot-pot vessels—often shaped like a yin-yang wheel—are designed to serve two stocks: one with chilies, one without. But Da Long Yi distinguishes itself by presenting the option of a “three-flavor pot,” which is divided into a mushroom-based broth, a tomato-based one, and a volcanic “all-red pot.” On the one hand, this is a sensible choice; although the dynamic combo of chili peppers and Szechuan peppercorns is pleasingly addictive, a handful is all it takes to drown out the complexity of more nuanced vegetable bases. On the other hand, one wishes that there were a four-flavor option, because the restaurant actually offers two “all-red” versions: one vegetarian and one with beef tallow, which tends to monopolize the flavor with its pungent gaminess.
The D.I.Y. nature of hot pot naturally puts considerable pressure on the ingredients. Fortunately, Da Long Yi does not disappoint with the variety and the freshness of its offerings. Like most places in town, the menu features the predictable platter of marbled beef, spam, fish fillet, and cellophane noodles. But if you’ve waited an hour just to score a table—in lieu of a maître d’, there is a QR code to register yourself on the wait list, so don’t forget your phone or you won’t get in—you might as well go bold.
Da Long Yi distinguishes itself by presenting the option of a “three-flavor pot,” which is divided into a mushroom-based broth, a tomato-based one, and a volcanic “all-red pot.”
Begin with the pig artery, which is served in pearly-white, curling slices that absorb a nice amount of whatever soup you choose without being held hostage to the oils and spices. If the crunch of the artery pleases you, move on to the pork kidney, which is cut into flowery shapes that vaguely resemble miniature porcupines and lands on the tongue with an umami-forward bounce. Take a break from the heavier ingredients with enoki mushrooms, lotus-root slices, and taro, which should take half as long to burble to the surface as the meats. And, if you want something that a Chengdu local might order, go for the pig brain, which tastes like a pleasant hybrid of silken tofu and sweetbread, or the beef tendons, which one patron described as “deliciously meaty gummy bears.”
With hot pot, perhaps the only thing that both Chongqing and Chengdu natives might agree on is that it’s almost impossible to gauge how much you’ve eaten. A good meal should be festive, relaxed, and long enough that every one of your fellow-diners smells like the “all-red pot.” When you’ve lost count of how many dishes have arrived, discretely loosen your belt. Then dip your chopsticks back into the broth. (Hot-pot soup base $18.99-$27.99; ingredients 99¢-$25.99.) ♦
