California, Los Angeles—besides being the second-largest city in the United States and the famed "City of Angels," it is also a mecca for celebrities.
It is also home to the second-largest Chinese community in the U.S., second only to San Francisco.
A large portion of the Chinese population in the United States consists of laborers brought over from China during the westward expansion. In the beginning, they arrived under harsh conditions, treated almost like livestock.
Despite facing discrimination, racial inequality, and social exclusion, they persevered and survived against the odds. Today, they form the third-largest ethnic group in the U.S. It is no exaggeration to say that the Chinese community is among the most significant, following White and Black populations.
Unlike certain attitudes back in China, where people occasionally make sweeping generalizations about overseas Chinese, most Chinese Americans remain remarkably united. Of course, regional differences exist between northern and southern Chinese communities, but under the pressures exerted by the dominant White and Black populations, they have learned the importance of solidarity.
Some in China believe that once these individuals acquire U.S. citizenship, they are no longer part of their homeland. Technically, that is true; they are no longer citizens of China. However, they are still descendants of Yan and Huang, bound by shared heritage and ethnic roots. Naturally, they prefer to support Chinese-owned businesses.
Take Zhang Dehai's Haishang Supermarket, for example. In terms of variety and competitive pricing, it cannot compare with retail giants like Walmart. Yet, it remains a thriving business.
Why? Because Chinese customers feel more comfortable shopping there.
Just like today—when the store in Los Angeles opened for the day, elderly residents taking their morning stroll and housewives on their daily grocery runs entered with baskets, selecting fresh vegetables. However, upon stepping inside, nearly everyone noticed a newly established section.
The new display cabinets were significantly smaller than those in other parts of the store, but they were far more elegant, drawing immediate attention. Many customers, curious about the change, approached to take a look.
It turned out to be a beef section. Haishang Supermarket had always sold beef, with prices comparable to Walmart's. But today, the sight of this beef left many customers either amused or astonished. Some shook their heads, some clicked their tongues in disbelief, but most walked away silently.
To them, the store must have lost its mind—the prices were outrageous.
"Lao Liu, is your store going bankrupt? Selling beef like this—you're treating it as a one-time cash grab! What kind of beef is this? Does it grant immortality? Why is it so expensive?" A man speaking in a Sichuan dialect picked up a one-pound cut of beef, smirking as he examined it.
The price tag read $450 per pound.
"Lao Zhang, if you don't understand, don't talk nonsense. Take a closer look—does this look like ordinary beef?" Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man with a store manager badge. His name was Lao Liu, and his tone carried a hint of contempt.
"Isn't it just beef? How is this any different? Will eating it really make me immortal?" Lao Zhang retorted, but he hesitated. He inspected the beef more carefully and found nothing unusual aside from its beautiful marbling.
"You really don't get it, do you? And you run a restaurant? This is the highest grade of premium A-grade beef! Have you heard of Japanese Wagyu? Their best grade is A5. Well, this is A5 Wagyu—the best beef in the world!" Lao Liu boasted.
He had been just as shocked as the others when he first saw the price. It seemed outrageous. But the owner, Zhang Dehai, had given each store five pounds of the beef to test. Lao Liu had tasted it the previous night, even with his mediocre cooking skills, and the flavor had nearly made him swallow his tongue. From that moment on, he became the beef's most loyal advocate. Unfortunately, it was far beyond his budget.
"No matter how good beef is, it's still just beef." Lao Zhang remained skeptical, though his curiosity was piqued. The marbling was indeed exquisite, but was it truly that exceptional?
"Tell you what—I'll give you a 20% discount, but only on this piece. Take it home and cook it properly. If it's not as good as I claim, you can come back, and I'll refund you." Lao Liu grinned.
He knew Lao Zhang well. He was the owner of a renowned Sichuan restaurant nearby. Wherever Chinese people lived, Chinese restaurants thrived—even if many had adapted to local tastes. However, a few, like Lao Zhang's restaurant, remained dedicated to authentic flavors, catering to Chinese patrons and foreigners who appreciated genuine Sichuan cuisine.
Legend had it that Lao Zhang's ancestors were once top-tier chefs. Yet, despite Sichuan cuisine's popularity, it had no presence in the prestigious Manchu-Han Imperial Feast. Consequently, his ancestors had struggled in late Qing Dynasty China, prompting them to emigrate to the U.S. and open a restaurant.
Their culinary skills were beyond reproach. Over the years, their establishment had grown into one of the largest Chinese restaurants in Chinatown, frequented by the community. Naturally, their prices reflected their reputation.
Though he had plenty of money, spending $450 on a pound of beef was still a stretch. Yet, seeing Lao Liu's confidence, he hesitated, then gritted his teeth and bought a piece.
Upon returning to his restaurant, he decided to prepare two classic Sichuan dishes: Husband and Wife Lung Slices (Fuqi Feipian) as a cold dish, and Steamed Beef with Rice Flour as a hot dish. Though he knew that the best way to enjoy Wagyu was raw, as steak, he firmly believed that Chinese cuisine could bring out its fullest flavor.
Husband and Wife Lung Slices traditionally used offal like ox tongue, heart, and tripe. However, offal was now more expensive and difficult to prepare, so beef had become a common substitute.
He sliced the beef thinly, simmered it in a spiced broth, let it dry, then mixed it with celery, roasted peanuts, chili oil, Sichuan peppercorn, and other seasonings.
For the steamed beef, he marinated the slices in Pixian bean paste, soy sauce, and lettuce oil before coating them in crushed rice and glutinous rice. Then, he steamed the dish over high heat for 30 minutes, adding chili powder, Sichuan pepper, garlic, and scallions.
These were simple dishes—ones he could cook with his eyes closed.
Yet, as he handled the beef, he noticed something astonishing. There was no gamey smell—only a fresh, rich aroma. Moreover, the texture was unlike any beef he had worked with before. It was firm, yet entirely free of tendons.
As the dishes cooked, the fragrance of the beef was overpowering, even against the strong Sichuan spices. The moment he took his first bite, his eyes widened.
The next morning, when Lao Liu opened the shop, he was stunned to find Lao Zhang already waiting outside, eyes bloodshot.
"What's the matter? Got kicked out by your wife?" Lao Liu teased.
But Lao Zhang ignored him, shoving past and heading straight for the beef section.
In reality, he hadn't been kicked out—he had stood outside all night, waiting.
Waiting for more of that beef.