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Sometimes you have to leave San Francisco to understand what’s cooking in San Francisco. Right now, that means driving down the 101 for suan cai yu — literally “sauerkraut fish,” an unfortunate translation of a delicious Chinese dish.

It’s not new to San Francisco. Z & Y Restaurant has long served an excellent version in Chinatown. But in the past few years, the Bay Area — specifically, the Peninsula, with its newer mainland Chinese communities and tech wealth — has seen a sauerkraut-fish frenzy ushered in by the arrival of the QR-code-driven fast-casual chains Fish With You and Wei’s Fish, both of which have locations in the thousands.

SF chefs have even started trekking south to do R&D as they work on their own versions of the dish. Brandon Jew, of the Michelin-starred Chinese American restaurant Mister Jiu’s, was at Tai Er a couple of weeks ago. His menu has a fish-dumpling soup with suan cai, or pickled napa cabbage, and dill. 

I met chef James Yeun Leong Parry in San Mateo for a first taste of Tai Er’s sauerkraut fish, a version of which he’ll introduce at his restaurant The Happy Crane in a couple of weeks. My friend and fellow food obsesser Albert Cheng joined us. I figured that between two men who’ve spent their lives eating and thinking their way through every region of China, I would learn a lot. I was not wrong.

Tai Er, which occupies a corner space on East Fourth Avenue, has a dramatic black interior and open kitchen. The walls are hung with manga-style murals, and there are thumbs-up icons next to recommended dishes on the menu. Over the bar, a sign reads “More than just spicy,” a reminder that Sichuan cuisine goes beyond mala, the spicy-numbing flavor popular in the U.S. “Mala’s popularity has lasted, like, two decades in San Francisco,” Cheng explained. “But there are actually 24 recognized flavors of Sichuan. There are smoke flavors. There’s the ginger flavor, the lychee flavor — there are a whole bunch.”

This is not to say that the sauerkraut fish at Tai Er is not spicy. You can order it without spice, mild, or spicy; we went with the latter. The massive bowl that arrived — afloat with firm slices of snakehead, the mild white fish used most often in suan cai yu, and tangy pickled greens — was scattered with dried chiles, Sichuan peppercorns, and chrysanthemum petals.

Unlike some variations, there were no noodles. “The broth is definitely thicker — more emulsion from the bones,” Parry said mid-bite, disapproving of the bamboo shoots, which he was sure were canned. “I like it. But I can’t see myself eating it regularly.”

From there we moved on to Cheng’s favorite place, one Parry wasn’t familiar with: Little Chengdu (opens in new tab), a mom-and-pop Sichuan restaurant that opened last year in a Millbrae strip mall. It’s owned and operated by chef Lei Yeun — a native of Chengdu, the culinary capital of Sichuan — who previously had a restaurant in San Mateo called Little Sichuan.

As we spun a lazy Susan crowded with a pot of tea, thick house-smoked bacon, and mapo tofu with bits of mala-saucy ground pork clinging to each jiggly cube, we waited for the suan cai yu to arrive. Cheng asked Parry about his name, Yeun Leong. “It means ‘Thunder Cloud Dragon,’” Parry said, laughing about the gravitas bestowed upon him at birth. Cheng brightened. “That’s the name of the chef here, too. Cloud dragon! That is really rare.” It definitely seemed like kismet. 

When the soup was presented — in a massive white bowl carried out by the chef’s wife — I could see Parry’s eyes light up as he took his first sip. As if he recognized himself in it.

I braced for the almost hallucinatory effect of mala, but this delicate version of the soup could have been served in a spa. The slippery fish was just-poached. There were transparent mung-bean noodles the thickness of fettuccine. The pickled greens — which had sat in clay pots for a minimum of six months with salt and baijiu — were funky and alive. There were slippery-chewy wood ear mushrooms and an abundance of fresh bamboo shoots.

Parry, who approaches food with the intensity of a trained fine-dining chef, softened. His food has been criticized for too-delicate flavor, something he balks at. But Little Chengdu’s sprightly broth, made only from the fish bones, is how he will make his own. “I must admit, I haven’t had a more authentic version in a while,” he said with the British accent he acquired growing up in Hong Kong. “There are things like baiwei (which directly translates to “hundred flavors”), lighter flavor profiles, which showcase balance and acidity. I think this is a perfect example.”

Parry is still working out exactly what will make up his version of sauerkraut fish. The current plan is to include pickled jalapeños, chayote leaves, seasonal vegetables like asparagus, black cod instead of snakehead, and chiles and red Sichuan peppercorns from 50 Hertz (opens in new tab).

Whatever the result, it will be his own. “This is how it should be,” agreed Cheng, acknowledging that the difference between a chain restaurant and a one-man operation has to do less with ingredients and more to do with heart. “After all, this is the taste of the chef’s soul.”