Creamy Chow Mein Chicken

Last Sunday at home in Sapulpa before flying back to Nashville Tuesday. New Year’s Eve had been Tuesday-the-thirty-first — Mama, Cody, Aunt Linda, Roy, and I had stayed up to midnight at the kitchen table eating leftover ham sandwiches and drinking sparkling apple cider in the actual champagne flutes Linda had bought specifically for the occasion at the Tulsa Hills Target. The Times Square ball-drop was on the television in the living room with the sound low. Cody had been quiet most of the day, the kind of quiet that means he was holding something he wanted to say in front of family at the right moment.

The right moment came at twelve-fifteen AM. Cody set his glass down on the table, looked around at the four of us, and told us he’d been offered the permanent head-chef position at the Tulsa restaurant. The owners had asked him Friday afternoon, after he’d been running the line for four full weeks of interim service and had increased the dinner-service customer counts and the average ticket size. The salary offer was generous. The position came with full benefits and a title and an office.

He’d been thinking about it for a week. He’d turned it down Wednesday. He wants to focus on opening his cafe in Sapulpa instead, which is now eighteen months away in his planning — he’s been saving aggressively from the interim head-chef pay, he’s already scouted three potential storefront locations on Main Street in Sapulpa, and he’s been writing the business plan in a Moleskine of his own that he keeps in his nightstand. He told us at the kitchen table at twelve-fifteen AM January first 2020 that the Tulsa job would have been a four-year salary trap and Sapulpa was his actual life’s work. Mama got up from her chair, walked around the table, and hugged him standing for a full minute. Aunt Linda cried into a paper napkin. Roy nodded slowly. I just sat there grinning.

Sunday I made creamy chow mein chicken because Cody had asked me specifically for it earlier in the week — he’d eaten a version at a Chinese restaurant in Tulsa in November called Lucky Dragon, the dish had stuck in his head as a possible cafe-menu addition, and he’d been wanting me to reverse-engineer the recipe for him before I left so he could take a working version to his Tulsa kitchen for the new permanent chef to consider as a daily special.

The technique: a pound of boneless skinless chicken breasts cut into one-inch cubes, marinated for thirty minutes in a tablespoon of soy sauce, a teaspoon of sesame oil, a teaspoon of cornstarch, and a half-teaspoon of grated ginger. The cornstarch in the marinade is the move that creates the velvety surface signature of restaurant-quality chow mein chicken. Stir-fried in two batches in a hot wok with vegetable oil for two minutes per batch until just cooked through. Out to a plate.

The vegetables: half a pound of cremini mushrooms sliced thick, four celery stalks sliced thin on the bias, one cup of fresh bean sprouts, three sliced scallions, and four cloves of garlic minced. The mushrooms and celery into the wok with another tablespoon of oil, stir-fried five minutes until the mushrooms have given up their water and started to brown. Garlic for thirty seconds. The chicken back in.

The sauce, whisked together in advance: a cup of low-sodium chicken broth, three tablespoons of low-sodium soy sauce, two tablespoons of oyster sauce, a tablespoon of rice vinegar, a tablespoon of brown sugar, a teaspoon of sesame oil, a tablespoon of cornstarch slurry mixed with two tablespoons of cold water. Poured into the hot wok and brought to a simmer for ninety seconds until the cornstarch thickens the sauce into a glossy coating. Off the heat, finish with a splash — about two tablespoons — of heavy cream. The cream is what turns the dish from a normal chow mein into a creamy chow mein. Don’t boil after the cream goes in or it will break.

The bean sprouts and scallions stirred in last for crunch and color. Served over crispy chow mein noodles (the kind that come in a can in the Asian-foods aisle) for the textural contrast with the soft saucy chicken-and-vegetable mixture.

Cody tasted it Sunday at five-thirty PM at the kitchen table and said, “Yes. That.” That was the verdict. He typed the recipe into his phone Sunday night and took it to the Tulsa restaurant Wednesday for the new permanent head chef to consider as a daily special. The recipe is now a cross-state collaboration between two siblings, which is a thing I’d like to keep doing for the rest of my life.

Cornstarch in the marinade. Splash of cream off the heat. Crispy noodles for the bottom. Here’s the build.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces
8 oz chow mein noodles (or thin egg noodles)
1 can (10.5 oz) cream of chicken soup
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup chicken broth
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup frozen peas (optional)
Salt to taste

Instructions

Cook the noodles. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the chow mein or egg noodles according to package directions. Drain and set aside.
Brown the chicken. Heat olive oil in a large skillet or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Season chicken pieces with garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and pepper. Cook for 6—8 minutes, stirring occasionally, until golden and cooked through. Remove and set aside.
Build the sauce. In the same skillet over medium heat, whisk together the cream of chicken soup, sour cream, chicken broth, and soy sauce until smooth and warmed through, about 3—4 minutes.
Combine. Return the chicken to the skillet. Add the drained noodles and frozen peas if using. Stir everything together until well coated and heated through, about 3 minutes.
Taste and serve. Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper as needed. Serve hot straight from the pan.

Nutrition (per serving)

Creamy Chow Mein Chicken