Yick Inn

6107 North Teutonia Avenue. (In the Silver Mill Mall.)

Next time you visit the Department of Motor Vehicles on Teutonia Avenue, I suggest that afterwards you celebrate the rare sweetness of bureaucratic liberation by going two doors north to YICK INN.  You might miss it as, from a cosmetic standpoint, it is the most unprepossessing looking of restaurants.  Who could be captivated by it?  If one is prone to over-thinking, the idea might occur that its complete plainness is a celebration of a paradox. The facade of the place is intentionally so lacking in ornamentation that it manages to immediately catch attention. If done on purpose, this would be a fine strategy.  But I doubt that the jarring sameness of the place is planned, and I believe this for a good  reason: to survive and flourish as it has since the Carter administration, YICK INN doesn’t need inventive marketing, or for that matter, any marketing at all.  The place has been under Chef Jimmy’s ownership for untold generations. It captivates for the simple reason that it has always seemed to exist; it is such an entrenched part of Milwauee’s north-side culinary scene that one could well-imagine it was there before the city around it put down stakes. Who needs fancy-pants?

YICK INN (take-out only!) is permanent. 

Upon closer inspection, especially if you have a hankering for the hyper-Americanized Chinese restaurant food of the last century, the temptation may arise to give the place a try.  Since that cuisine was part of my childhood, I did precisely that.  Entering YICK’S door turned out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made; right up there with quitting the clarinet in middle-school, a decision I every day thank God for helping me make.  Yet one more reason to be a theist. 

“Go in...don’t be shy,” I heard a faint voice, more distant than the sands of old Egypt advise. When the sands of old Egypt start talking to you, it’s best to pay attention.

I went in there.  

Before getting to what YICK does best, it would be negligent not to mention the sign that prominently greets and informs the patron upon entering. This text defines the spirit of the eatery’s place in the cosmic scheme of things.

PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU ORDER

THIS IS NOT A FAST FOOD RESTAURANT.

EVERYTHING IS MADE TO ORDER

PEASE DON'T RING THE BELL AND LEAVE NOW.

ONCE YOU HAVE PLACED AN ORDER AND WE HAVE STARTED PROCESSING YOUR FOOD, “NO REFUND”

NO CHANGE WILL BE MADE, NO EXCEPTION. IF YOU WANT SOME FAST FOOD, WE SUGGEST YOU TRY THE FOLLOWING RESTAURANTS. THEIRS MAY BE FASTER, BETTER AND CHEAPER.

CHINA ONE 64TH AND BROWN DEER, CHINA ONE 74TH AND APPLETON CHINESE CHEF 78TH AND APPLETON, WONG’S WOK, CAPITAL AND APPLETON, HONG KONG EXPRESS 74TH AND GOOD HOPE, ROYAL WOK GREEN TREE AND GREEN BAY,  WOK2GO SHERMAN AND BRADLEY,  YENS CHINA 78TH AND GOOD HOPE.

And then a reassuring coda:

WE ARE NOT RELATED!  GOOD LUCK!

This is a remarkable, and in some ways, inspiring passage. It brings to mind some ancient clerical advice that I have been conveniently trying to avoid for a good part of my inattentive life. YICK INN, I am happy to report, did me a favour. It helped me start to pay more attention. As it tuns out, the restaurant has made a significant contribution to my spiritual growth; a herculean task if there ever was one.

“And when you pray know who before you stand….” I can’t vouch for Jimmy’s theological stance when he is in the kitchen.  But his words on that sign tell me that he knows where he is, he knows what he is doing, and he knows the glory of making the best friggin’ fried rice in Milwaukee County.  

Reverend Jimmy.

Enough of the religious digression...this is a restaurant review.

At the risk of losing the curious reader who wants to get to “the meat and potatoes”, I must confess something: the only food I have sampled on the Yick Inn menu is the Fried Rice.  The wisdom needed to approach the egg rolls is not yet with me.  Not yet.  Perhaps not in this lifetime. If I roll the cubes right, maybe in the next.

How is the fried rice?  Is it “authentic.”?  This last is a word I have recently begun to move away from using in any critical discussion.  It tends to make critics even more insufferable than they already are.  

“I am what I am” a voice adumbrates from the depths of the “take out” carton. Who could refuse to see what that “am” looks like?  Not me, bubba.  Here it is: a magisterial conglomeration of grains that when delved into, separates into wise counterpoints, breaks down further into pleasing intervals (mostly major sixths to those who want to know the specifics), and lastly arrives into individual pitches, seminal, golden and browned.

Maestro Jimmy.