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Restaurateur and chef Tony Hu came to the U.S. in 1993 and opened his own restaurant five years later. Hu now has nine restaurants and will open another this weekend. (E. Jason Wambsgans/Chicago Tribune) |
"They say, 'Tony, you're so crazy.' Yes, I am."
You heard it from Tony Hu himself, chieftain of Chinatown. Something's off in his bitter melon. A sane businessman wouldn't open seven restaurants within a half-square-mile area, yet here we are, an empire rising before us at Wentworth and Archer.
Tony Hu is crazy not because he has opened half a dozen Chinese restaurants since 2008 and invested in a seventh (Sweet Station), with four more in the works by the end of 2013. He's crazy because the man has no line separating ambition from temerity. For example, when I asked about his five-year goal, Hu replied, in a tone implying inevitability, that he plans on listing on the New York Stock Exchange.
How will Hu accomplish this? He's about to sign a lease on Michigan Avenue for a restaurant specializing in Peking duck in the grand tradition of Beijing's Da Dong and Quanjude. There, he plans on acquiring a Michelin star or three. And when that takes off, he'll partner with a restaurant group in China and open locations in New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles. And then you'll see him on CNBC, ringing the opening bell on Wall Street.
Just when you want to pat Hu on the shoulder and assure him, "Very good, Tony, you keep chasing that dream," you realize: Hu has proven naysayers wrong thus far. Every restaurant with Hu's name attached has remained opened. (Palatine's Szechuan House, in which Hu had a small ownership stake, closed in 2006. Plus, he sold Lao Sze Chuan Express in University Village in 2004. "It was too close to the Chinatown original," Hu said.)
His flagship Lao Sze Chuan, 14 years after it opened, is the best known Chinese restaurant in Chicago. Even with a dozen dining options steps away, on a Saturday night people wait at the southwest entrance of Chinatown Square for an hour to dine here. Among high-end Chicago chefs there is plenty of cachet: Ask for their favorite places to eat on a night off and Lao Sze Chuan will be on many shortlists. In the circle of Chicago restaurant ownership, Tony Hu is the Chinese Rich Melman, or rather, Rich Melman is the white Tony Hu.
So if this raspy-voiced 44-year-old man is indeed crazy, are we crazier for underestimating him?
Raising Chinese food's profile
He came to America in 1993, took morning English classes and arrived just in time for his 10:30 a.m. shift at Szechuan House, on Michigan Avenue. He spent five years between there and its offshoot, Szechuan East, on Ohio Street. All the while he felt homesick. He found much of the heavily-sauced food he cooked unappealing.
Hu rectified this in 1998 with Lao Sze Chuan. Sichuanese food appeared on Chicago menus before, yes, but few had the verve for uncompromising spiciness that Lao Sze Chuan showcased. Hot dishes didn't just receive the graphical chili pepper asterisk; they got top billing on the menu: spicy options and, below that, nonspicy options. And alongside broccoli beef and cashew chicken, there were sour pickled pork intestines and boiled frog in red chili oil, not exactly "takeout Chinese."
Said Tribune restaurant critic Phil Vettel: "In the early days, Chinese regional labels were used exclusively as spice-level adjectives: 'Cantonese' meant safe, 'Mandarin' slightly spicy and 'Szechwan' spiciest of all. Regional authenticity was an afterthought at best."
Whereas many Chicago Chinese restaurants heretofore catered to Americans, Lao Sze Chuan aimed for a mainland Chinese palate. (Proof? For the first few years, it never bothered changing the signage from previous ownership — Mandarin Chef — only adding the Chinese characters for Lao Sze Chuan under its English name.) Hu said his ideal demographic, then and now, remains young Chinese students with disposable incomes and a hankering for food from the motherland.
The first 10 years saw three Lao Sze Chuans. Beginning in 2008, the floodgates opened: Both Lao Shanghai and Lao Beijing on New Year's Day, the small-plates Lao You Ju in 2010, Lao Hunan in 2011, and three restaurants so far this year: Lao Yunnan, Lao Mala and Lao Sze Chuan in Uptown (opening Friday).
Tony Hu treats the neighborhood as a Monopoly game board, scooping up property whenever his turn comes around. Three weeks ago, he opened Lao Mala — Hu's foray into spicy street foods and hot pots — in the old space of Lure izakaya. (He was in talks to take over the shuttered Tao Ran Ju space and open Lao Taiwan, but negotiations fell through.)
"You don't want to go to a neighborhood with 'for lease' signs everywhere," Hu said, sliding a grilled chicken gizzard off a skewer. We dined at Lao Mala on day two of business. "It's a bad image. I don't want to see empty spots in Chinatown."
Hu contended his ultimate goal is exposing Chinese culture to the world. It's why Hu claimed he doesn't deal with outside investors, because "investors just want to make money. They don't understand my vision." All 10 current restaurants (seven in Chinatown, one each in Downers Grove, Uptown and Connecticut) are owned solely by Hu or with a local business partner.
"There's no doubt that from the time he started Lao Sze Chuan that his fleet of restaurants have played a major role in bringing in nonresidents of Chinatown to visit Chinatown," said Tony Shu, president of the Chicago Chinatown Chamber of Commerce (Hu is its vice president). "He's part of that new school of (Chinatown) restaurants. He has the vision of seeing that decor and ambience has a lot to do with culinary success. And I think his personality has a big role in it. He's a very good promoter and sales person."
In promoting a non-Americanized style of Chinese cooking, Hu believes one of the world's great injustices is that the Chinese, with a 6,000-year head start, isn't regarded in the same gastronomic standing as the French. He lists a number of factors, but chief among them: poor marketing and an assumption from immigrant restaurant owners that Americans would reject their version of Chinese food. To turn around a perpetuated belief is like reversing a river's flow. And so Hu takes a region, mines its recipes and presents it under the Lao banner.
I asked a few trusted names to offer their theories. The most satisfying answer came from fellow Chinese-Chicagoan chef Jackie Shen:
You heard it from Tony Hu himself, chieftain of Chinatown. Something's off in his bitter melon. A sane businessman wouldn't open seven restaurants within a half-square-mile area, yet here we are, an empire rising before us at Wentworth and Archer.
Tony Hu is crazy not because he has opened half a dozen Chinese restaurants since 2008 and invested in a seventh (Sweet Station), with four more in the works by the end of 2013. He's crazy because the man has no line separating ambition from temerity. For example, when I asked about his five-year goal, Hu replied, in a tone implying inevitability, that he plans on listing on the New York Stock Exchange.
How will Hu accomplish this? He's about to sign a lease on Michigan Avenue for a restaurant specializing in Peking duck in the grand tradition of Beijing's Da Dong and Quanjude. There, he plans on acquiring a Michelin star or three. And when that takes off, he'll partner with a restaurant group in China and open locations in New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles. And then you'll see him on CNBC, ringing the opening bell on Wall Street.
Just when you want to pat Hu on the shoulder and assure him, "Very good, Tony, you keep chasing that dream," you realize: Hu has proven naysayers wrong thus far. Every restaurant with Hu's name attached has remained opened. (Palatine's Szechuan House, in which Hu had a small ownership stake, closed in 2006. Plus, he sold Lao Sze Chuan Express in University Village in 2004. "It was too close to the Chinatown original," Hu said.)
His flagship Lao Sze Chuan, 14 years after it opened, is the best known Chinese restaurant in Chicago. Even with a dozen dining options steps away, on a Saturday night people wait at the southwest entrance of Chinatown Square for an hour to dine here. Among high-end Chicago chefs there is plenty of cachet: Ask for their favorite places to eat on a night off and Lao Sze Chuan will be on many shortlists. In the circle of Chicago restaurant ownership, Tony Hu is the Chinese Rich Melman, or rather, Rich Melman is the white Tony Hu.
So if this raspy-voiced 44-year-old man is indeed crazy, are we crazier for underestimating him?
Raising Chinese food's profile
He came to America in 1993, took morning English classes and arrived just in time for his 10:30 a.m. shift at Szechuan House, on Michigan Avenue. He spent five years between there and its offshoot, Szechuan East, on Ohio Street. All the while he felt homesick. He found much of the heavily-sauced food he cooked unappealing.
Hu rectified this in 1998 with Lao Sze Chuan. Sichuanese food appeared on Chicago menus before, yes, but few had the verve for uncompromising spiciness that Lao Sze Chuan showcased. Hot dishes didn't just receive the graphical chili pepper asterisk; they got top billing on the menu: spicy options and, below that, nonspicy options. And alongside broccoli beef and cashew chicken, there were sour pickled pork intestines and boiled frog in red chili oil, not exactly "takeout Chinese."
Said Tribune restaurant critic Phil Vettel: "In the early days, Chinese regional labels were used exclusively as spice-level adjectives: 'Cantonese' meant safe, 'Mandarin' slightly spicy and 'Szechwan' spiciest of all. Regional authenticity was an afterthought at best."
Whereas many Chicago Chinese restaurants heretofore catered to Americans, Lao Sze Chuan aimed for a mainland Chinese palate. (Proof? For the first few years, it never bothered changing the signage from previous ownership — Mandarin Chef — only adding the Chinese characters for Lao Sze Chuan under its English name.) Hu said his ideal demographic, then and now, remains young Chinese students with disposable incomes and a hankering for food from the motherland.
The first 10 years saw three Lao Sze Chuans. Beginning in 2008, the floodgates opened: Both Lao Shanghai and Lao Beijing on New Year's Day, the small-plates Lao You Ju in 2010, Lao Hunan in 2011, and three restaurants so far this year: Lao Yunnan, Lao Mala and Lao Sze Chuan in Uptown (opening Friday).
Tony Hu treats the neighborhood as a Monopoly game board, scooping up property whenever his turn comes around. Three weeks ago, he opened Lao Mala — Hu's foray into spicy street foods and hot pots — in the old space of Lure izakaya. (He was in talks to take over the shuttered Tao Ran Ju space and open Lao Taiwan, but negotiations fell through.)
"You don't want to go to a neighborhood with 'for lease' signs everywhere," Hu said, sliding a grilled chicken gizzard off a skewer. We dined at Lao Mala on day two of business. "It's a bad image. I don't want to see empty spots in Chinatown."
Hu contended his ultimate goal is exposing Chinese culture to the world. It's why Hu claimed he doesn't deal with outside investors, because "investors just want to make money. They don't understand my vision." All 10 current restaurants (seven in Chinatown, one each in Downers Grove, Uptown and Connecticut) are owned solely by Hu or with a local business partner.
"There's no doubt that from the time he started Lao Sze Chuan that his fleet of restaurants have played a major role in bringing in nonresidents of Chinatown to visit Chinatown," said Tony Shu, president of the Chicago Chinatown Chamber of Commerce (Hu is its vice president). "He's part of that new school of (Chinatown) restaurants. He has the vision of seeing that decor and ambience has a lot to do with culinary success. And I think his personality has a big role in it. He's a very good promoter and sales person."
In promoting a non-Americanized style of Chinese cooking, Hu believes one of the world's great injustices is that the Chinese, with a 6,000-year head start, isn't regarded in the same gastronomic standing as the French. He lists a number of factors, but chief among them: poor marketing and an assumption from immigrant restaurant owners that Americans would reject their version of Chinese food. To turn around a perpetuated belief is like reversing a river's flow. And so Hu takes a region, mines its recipes and presents it under the Lao banner.
I asked a few trusted names to offer their theories. The most satisfying answer came from fellow Chinese-Chicagoan chef Jackie Shen:
