I really wanted to like this meal. The trays looked promising at first glance, almost theatrical in their intensity, bowls and plates glowing red under the lights, steam rising, that unmistakable scent of chili oil hanging in the air like a warning and an invitation at the same time. The cucumber dish arrived first, thick chunks of bright green cucumber swimming in a dark red pool, seeds exposed, skin glossy, everything coated in oil so dense it reflected the overhead lights like lacquer. It looked bold, aggressive in a good way, the kind of plate that promises a sharp wake-up call. But the moment it hit the mouth, the story was already written. Before flavor, before texture, before anything else, came grease. Chili oil first, chili oil second, chili oil last. The cucumber’s crunch tried to break through but drowned almost immediately, like a voice lost in traffic.
The noodles and meat dishes followed, and visually they were different enough to keep hope alive. One bowl had wide, hand-torn noodles tangled with slices of beef and cabbage, all stained the same deep red, oil pooling at the bottom and clinging to every surface. Another plate arrived heavier, darker, meatier, but again floating in that same slick layer, a shimmering red blanket that flattened everything underneath it. I kept tasting, honestly trying to separate them in my head, trying to catch differences, some spice profile shift, some hint of fermentation, cumin, garlic, anything. But it was the same loop every time. Pre-taste: oil. Taste: oil carrying chili. Aftertaste: oil sitting on the tongue, lingering, coating, refusing to leave. The dishes didn’t evolve, they just repeated themselves with different shapes.
Even the kitchen tells the story if you look long enough. Stainless steel everywhere, industrial, efficient, but the real stars are the metal containers filled with sauces and pastes, ladles resting inside pools of red and brown, chili oil ready to be poured like a universal solution. It’s not that the food is badly made, and it’s not that spice is the problem. I love heat. I seek it out. What I don’t want is monotony disguised as intensity. When everything tastes the same, when the oil becomes the dish instead of the carrier, you stop eating food and start eating a concept. And that concept, here, is chili oil turned up to eleven with no off switch.
By the end of the meal, the table was a mess of empty plates, oily rings left behind, napkins used not for wiping mouths but for wiping fingers, trays marked with red stains like evidence. I wasn’t full in the satisfying way, just heavy, coated, tired of chewing through grease. Xi’an Famous Foods clearly knows its audience, and plenty of people love this style, that unapologetic, oil-forward punch. But for me, the tragedy is simple: different dishes should tell different stories. Here, they all told the same one, again and again, and by the last bite, I was already done listening.
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