Fire it Up

THE TEXTURE of the spicy jellyfish salad is more than a
little difficult to explain. The word “crunchy” springs to
mind—because there is a distinct crunch as you chew—but
that would discount the springiness also present between the teeth.
Maybe it’s less of a crunch and more of a snap, like biting into a
sausage casing. More than anything, the delectable pile of thin, shiny
tentacles, tossed in a garlicky pepper sauce, resembles delicate
noodles. The urge to slurp them is almost overwhelming. But it just
doesn’t seem right, somehow… slurping tentacles. And so go the
thoughts of a spice-addled brain, dining at the Sichuan outpost of
Lucky Strike.

Eating at Lucky Strike is a matter of finding anything to staunch
your flow of befuddlement. After all, you’ve traveled to the
hinterlands of the city, found the restaurant hiding ungraciously in
the corner of a tiny bedraggled strip mall, had the good fortune to
arrive when they were open (which is not guaranteed), became confused
because the restaurant’s boundaries are doubled by an enormous mirror
on the wall, and finally sat down to a menu that includes a section
titled “On the safer side.”

For the most part, Lucky Strike’s menu teeters on the border of the
known and unknown. Having never been to China’s Sichuan province I
can’t vouch for the authenticity, but I do know you won’t find spicy
pig intestines ($10) at your average chow mein palace—which may
be for the best, considering tripe is an acquired taste (but so worth
acquiring). I will also say, with confidence, that Lucky Strike’s
cuisine is delectable—if you happen to enjoy eating fire.

One of the more astounding dishes here is the hot pepper chicken
bath ($10), which describes exactly what you get. When the plate
arrives, it looks like a mistake. You might nervously ask your server,
“Where’s the chicken?” It’s there in that intimidating pile of
glistening dried red chiles. I imagine eating hot pepper chicken bath
is analogous to the sensation of licking a hot wok. The chicken’s
flavor is frontloaded with savory wok char followed promptly by a clean
bright heat.

That bright heat is especially apparent in the Mapo tofu
($9)—braised tofu in a beef broth—and can be attributed in
part to the sprinkling of prickly ash (or Sichuan pepper) with its hint
of pine and an almost anesthetic quality on the tongue. Paired with
silky tofu, the effect is pleasantly odd.

But so much of the menu at Lucky Strike is pleasantly odd, in
contrast of texture and flavor. The spicy pig’s ears ($5), sliced into
thin strips, have the opposite texture of the jellyfish salad ($5):
tender before a cartilaginous snap. The Dan Dan noodles ($4) are firm,
almost chewy, and work perfectly with diced pork and spicy broth. The
spicy kimchee fried rice ($8) is a riot of heat, tangy funkiness from
fermented cabbage, mellow fluffy fried egg, and rice. It goes on and
on….

The portions are just right if what you’ve ordered is available
(again, it’s not guaranteed), and the price is recession-tastic. But I
can’t say for certain Lucky Strike cares much about its customers. The
owners are pleasant enough, but it’s as if anything they’d care to
communicate is said through the food; what you get is a taunt, a
challenge, a sly wink, a shrug, and a loving pat on the back before you
head home with a bag full of leftovers, wondering if the whole thing
was some weird, flavorful dream.