Chicken Nanking

My first official date with my husband Dave was at the House of Nanking in San Francisco’s Chinatown, in 1992. It’s a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the windows smeared with steam and decades of grease. When the door opens, aromas drift out to tease hungry crowds waiting to get inside to sample the namesake dish. Dave told me it was a litmus test: If I liked the chicken, there’d be a second date. We’ve been eating together ever since.

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