Jefferson Street's Peking House doesn't shy away from flavors -- or the signs of authenticity.
The guy knows his way around a pair of chopsticks. He lands a two-top right in the middle of Peking House, slaps his newspaper down on the table and orders without looking at the menu. Twenty minutes later, he’s hunched over a bowl as big as his head.
I lean over the back of my chair to face him.
“What is that?” I ask, looking at the saucy mixture in his bowl.