There was just no denying it: Right there in front of me, piled high in all their tastebud-fuzzy glory, were dozens of duck tongues. Their arrangement—artfully disheveled, like a young Hollywood stud’s carefully mussed hair—and appealingly rich brown sheen did a great job of distracting my dining companions and I at first. But peering deeper into the lingual depths of the dish made it impossible to ignore the one almost bracing fact of the matter: We were about to nosh on that part of the bird that had spent its living years on this planet craving grubs and salamanders and lake-top bugs.
But this, of course, was why we had come out to Wokano. It has gotten a fair amount of press lately for its more authentic preparations, and my friends and I wanted to experience them first hand.
So there we were, perched on our thrones at the side of the cavernous space—it looks like nothing so much as a perfect venue for weddings and bar mitzvahs with its shimmery chandeliers, large speakers and dance floor-appropriate center area—and reading through the “real” menus we had to ask for after having received the more approachable Chinese-American one upon being seated.
It was, indeed, the cornucopia of unexpectedness we had hoped for. Not lions and tigers and bears (oh my!) but tongues and feets and gizzards (oh my…goodness!).
After much discussion and not a little bit of BlackBerry Wikipedia-ing to definitively confirm what certain items were, we plunged right in, solicited advice from our friendly tour-guide of a waiter, and ordered with abandon.
Now, as my friend David Snyder astutely pointed out in one of his typically trenchant reviews in City Paper, it’s nearly impossible to contextualize a meal like this unless you’ve eaten these dishes before. And though I’m willing to taste anything once, I hadn’t had the chance to dine in quite this style prior to my Wokano adventure, which pretty much renders the traditional restaurant-review protocol of comparative analysis impossible, the food equivalent of assessing the merits of Ralph Macchio’s film-acting skills if you’ve never seen a talkie before.
So rather than write this as a traditional review, I’ll just report back on the experience itself, and strongly urge the more open-minded among you to give Wokano a go. You’ll be in good hands, and your cultural horizons—not just your culinary ones—will surely be expanded by a trek on over to this Zsa-Zsa-sized gem on the 1100 block of Washington.
But back to the tongues. They’ve received a fair amount of buzz around town these days—first pressure steamed and then quickly sautéed with soy sauce—and were absolutely lovely, and one of the best dishes I’ve tasted in a long time. About the size of a pinky finger from the middle knuckle to the tip, they’re eaten like artichoke petals. Gently chomp down with the front teeth and pull the meat and fat off the bone in one clean sweep. Also, close your eyes and think happy thoughts (the first bite is the hardest).
Their flavor, hearty and salty-sweet, fell somewhere between meaty and earthy notes. And beneath them, in a little shadow mountain, was a carrot and daikon slaw whose vinegary brightness sliced right through the richness of meat itself. Combined with a bracing German Riesling, it was perfect.
The only part that might cause some consternation was the texture, which was decidedly gelatinous. The teeth, before snapping through the top layer and into the tender meat itself, encounter a layer that’s unexpectedly spongy. Squish your own tongue in the middle and then gently press down on the center with your teeth and you get the idea. But unfamiliarity is not necessarily tantamount to grossness, which is crucial to remember when dining on unfamiliar dishes like this one.
Fish maw and goose foot hot pot was less successful, though that was only because of one component: The feet, web and all, left an off-putting ammoniac note on the back of the tongue. I’m a big fan of chicken feet, but these flappers just left me cold.
The fish maw, however—the maw is the gas bladder that allows the fish to maintain and control its buoyancy—was gorgeous, like a perfect cross between tofu and a particularly tender scallop in both flavor and texture. The deep earthiness of the mushroom and salty-funky broth could not have been better when poured over white rice, and all told, aside from those feet, the dish was not only pleasant but approachable.
Chinese broccoli was lavished with riches it far too often misses out on. Here, instead of finding its necessary saltiness just from oyster sauce, there were little pieces of salt fish—like a Chinese version of baccala—interspersed throughout. The difference was just as dramatic as the one in Italian restaurants when anchovies are melted over sautéing garlic for a savory note instead of the more usual sprinkling of salt. My insides felt like a raisin after killing the plate of it, but I didn’t care: These were veggies raised to the addictive level of Bolivian nose candy.
On the more easy-to-wrap-your-mind-around end of things, the fried salt-and-pepper calamari, little missile-shaped hollows of squid, arrived perfectly cosseted in a golden batter and gilded with a healthy dusting of salt, pepper and thin slivers of fried garlic. Breath-takingly tender sliced beef with plump bell peppers, scallion, ginger and garlic sauce also sang more clearly—and without the obscuring veil of cornstarch that holds so many versions back—than what you’re likely used to.
But while the standards here are as successful as anywhere in town right now, it’s with the less familiar (and more traditional) dishes that Wokano really stands out. If, after all, eating is about more than nourishing the belly—if it is, rather, about providing sustenance for the mind and the soul as well—then this cavernous space might be one of the most rewarding restaurants in town right now.
There is certainly food that’s better and more elegant in Philadelphia—there always is, from the humblest corner sausage cart to the exalted level of the finest establishments—but none that I’ve visited lately has challenged me, and rewarded my efforts, quite as profoundly as Wokano. Squeamishness be damned: Sometimes, you just need to slip on out of your comfort zone to really get a thrill. And a little bit of tongue doesn’t hurt.
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