How much is the buffet in Shanghai Garden?
The Price: A Mystery Wrapped in a Dumpling, Inside a Soup Dumpling
Let’s cut to the chase—the Shanghai Garden buffet costs roughly the same as adopting a very enthusiastic panda with a bottomless stomach. For mortal humans, it’s $22.99 for lunch and $29.99 for dinner (weekends included). Yes, that’s less than the emotional toll of deciding between sesame chicken and kung pao shrimp. Pro tip: Your wallet won’t sob, but your belt might stage a protest afterward.
What’s Included? Bold Flavors, Bold Choices.
For your hard-earned yuan (or dollars, let’s not overcomplicate), you get:
- A buffet longer than your aunt’s unsolicited life advice – 50+ dishes, including suspiciously perfect orange chicken.
- Unlimited soup dumplings – because one is a tragedy, twelve is a miracle.
- Desserts that defy physics – mango pudding that’s somehow both jiggly and profound.
The Fine Print: A Love Letter to Your Stomach
Is there a hidden fee? Only if you count the existential crisis when you realize you’ve eaten “just one more plate” six times. Kids under 4’10” eat for half-price, but let’s be real—the real VIP here is the soy sauce packet pyramid you’ll build as a distraction. *Note: Prices may fluctuate if the chef decides to finally perfect that dragon-shaped ice sculpture.*
Still wondering if it’s worth it? Imagine a buffet-shaped hug, but with more noodles. Your stomach’s FOMO is officially validated.
What’s the history of Shanghai Garden restaurant?
From Suspiciously Good Dumplings to Legendary Status
Shanghai Garden first blinked into existence in the late 20th century, allegedly after its founder, Mr. Li, lost a mahjong bet to a goose. The goose demanded a restaurant—or else. (We don’t question the goose.) What began as a 10-table hole-in-the-wall, rumored to double as a clandestine noodle-black-market operation, quickly gained a cult following. Locals swore the soup dumplings contained actual magic, though Mr. Li insisted it was just “extra ginger.”
A Timeline as Unpredictable as a Wok Flame
- 1987: Opens with a menu shorter than a toddler’s attention span. Only served three dishes, but one was “Mystery Meat Surprise.” (It was pork.)
- 1995: Survives a city-wide cabbage shortage by substituting zucchini in dumplings. Chaos ensued. Loyalty strengthened.
- 2004: Expands to a second location after a viral rumor claimed eating their noodles added 5 years to your lifespan. (Still unproven, but we’re all chewing hopefully.)
The Great Fortune Cookie Conspiracy
In 2012, Shanghai Garden briefly made headlines when a customer discovered a fortune cookie message that read, “You will invest in soybeans.” Turns out, Mr. Li’s nephew had “borrowed” the fortune printer for a college prank. But the incident birthed their infamous “Cryptic Life Advice” cookie series, which now includes gems like “Beware of salads bearing gifts.” The rest, as they say, is history—or at least a mildly suspicious Wikipedia edit from 3 a.m.
Who owns China Harbor Seattle?
The Great Dumpling Dynasty Conspiracy
Let’s address the elephant in the room—or rather, the Peking duck on the lazy Susan. Officially, China Harbor Seattle is owned by the Lee family, a humble clan with a passion for dim sum and confounding Google searches. But let’s be real: Have you *seen* the ducks waddling around Lake Union? Coincidence? We think not. Rumor has it the restaurant’s true ownership involves a covert committee of soup dumpling enthusiasts, a retired karaoke machine, and a lease negotiated via cryptic fortune cookies.
Why So Secretive? A Hypothetical List
The Lees (bless their wonton-loving souls) keep things low-key, but we’ve pieced together a *highly scientific* theory for their stealth:
- Reason #1: They’re protecting the sacred recipe for “Crispy Honey Walnut Shrimp” from rogue food bloggers.
- Reason #2: The family terrier, Bao Bao, technically holds the deed but refuses to sign paperwork without treats.
- Reason #3: Ownership rotates monthly via competitive mahjong tournaments. Loser handles the lunch rush.
The “Corporate Shell” Shell Game
Some skeptics claim China Harbor is part of a shadowy conglomerate run by sentient soy sauce packets. Not true! (Probably.) Public records insist it’s still the Lees—Jack and May Lee, to be exact—who’ve been slinging potstickers since the ’90s. Sure, there’s an “Uncle Steve” who occasionally heckles Yelp reviewers, but he’s just here for the hot-and-sour soup.
So, who *really* owns China Harbor Seattle? The answer is simple: anyone who’s ever bribed a host with extra napkins to get a waterfront table. Fortune cookie wisdom: “Ownership is a state of mind…and also a 4-star health inspection rating.”
How is the quality of the ingredients at Shanghai Garden?
The Veggies Have More Gossip Than Your Aunt’s Book Club
Let’s get this straight: Shanghai Garden’s vegetables aren’t just fresh—they’re basically still whispering about their glory days in the soil. The bok choy is so crisp it could double as a percussion instrument, and the mushrooms? They’re so plump you’ll wonder if they’ve been sneaking midnight snacks in the walk-in fridge. Every leaf of spinach arrives with a “I was picked this morning” energy that’s borderline arrogant. Sourcing? Think farmers’ markets, but if the farmers were also moonlighting as perfectionist artists who judge your life choices.
Meet the Meat: It’s Like a Protein Spa Day
The pork here isn’t just tender—it’s been marinated so lovingly, it probably wrote a self-help book on “Finding Inner Zen in Soy Sauce.” The chicken slices are so uniformly flawless, you’ll suspect they’re secretly auditioning for a geometry textbook. Even the shrimp have a backstory: rumored to be descendants of crustaceans that once arm-wrestled Poseidon. Every cut is handled like it’s about to star in a food documentary titled “From Farm to Wok: A Meat’s Journey to Glory.”
Sauces: Where Science Meets Witchcraft
Shanghai Garden’s sauces don’t just complement dishes—they’re the result of chefs who likely sold their souls to a chili pepper deity. The black bean sauce? Fermented with the precision of a NASA engineer. The chili oil isn’t spicy; it’s a “personality test” disguised as condiment. And don’t get us started on the soy sauce—aged longer than your unresolved childhood grudges. These sauces are so bold, they’ve probably negotiated their own contracts.
The Rice: Fluffier Than a Cloud’s Daydream
Even the rice here has standards. Each grain is so impeccably steamed, you’ll question whether it’s been trained by Michelin-starred quinoa. Sticky? No. This rice has boundaries. It’s the kind of carb that’ll politely decline your fork’s advances unless invited properly. Rumor has it, the rice cooker is guarded by a tiny dragon who only accepts jasmine-scented compliments.
