It should be a given that what passes for Chinese food in America is light years away from “authentic” Chinese food, but there is one dish that bridges the gap. I remember the first time I had sweet and sour pork in China and thinking it tasted exactly like Panda Express (in a good way). The same can be said for Korea, as despite their versions of Chinese food being bizarre to my sinified palate, one invariant served at pretty much all Chinese restaurants in Korea is a dish called tang-su-yuk (탕수육).
It doesn’t take a linguist to realize that tang-su-yuk sounds an awful lot like tang-cu-rou (糖醋肉 “sugar vinegar meat”) or more properly 糖醋里脊 (tang2cu4li3ji3 “sugar vinegar pork loin”), although the Korean dictionary says that the hanja (Chinese characters) behind tang-su-yuk are actually 糖水肉 (tang2shui3 rou4, “sugar water meat”). Though, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
To the best of my knowledge, China has at least three distinct schools of sweet and sour pork. There is the Cantonese style centered around Guangdong and available at every Hong Kong cafe (港式茶餐厅); there is the southern (江南 jiang1nan2, a.k.a. south of the Yangtze) style centered around Hangzhou; and there is the northern style, which I associate most strongly with Dongbei (东北 “Northeast” a.k.a. Manchuria), though technically speaking Dongbei food is based on Shandong cuisine.
In Hong Kong, one orders 咕咾肉 (gu1lao3rou4 in Mandarin), which I assume has some meaning in Cantonese. The meat is chopped pork ribs (排骨 pai2gu3) that are lightly coated in flour or corn starch to create a very crispy, but thin outside texture. Bell peppers, onions, and pineapple are briefly stir-fried in, though the vegetables usually retain a bit of their raw edge. Needless to say, the dish is heavy on the sweet.
In the lower reaches of the Yangtze river, one orders 糖醋里脊 (tang2cu4 li3ji3), where the name is a literally description of the ingredients: sugar and vinegar. 里脊 means tenderloin, so there are no bones in the dish. Relatively lean, elongated pieces of pork are thickly battered and served in a brownish sauce. Much like McDonald’s failed launch of mozzarella sticks, there is often a moment of disappointment when you bite into what looks to be a big chunk only to find there is barely any meat inside.
In northeastern China, you order 锅包肉 (guo1bao1rou1, literally “pot wrapped meat”) whose name probably has an interesting origin story associated with it. This dish batters large, thin slices of lean pork and better restaurants add a bit of shredded ginger to the sauce. Unlike the other two forms of sweet and sour pork, the pieces are not bite sized. Though there is still a lot of breading hanging off the pork it is usually fried very crispy on the outside and chewy inside.
All in all, I probably prefer Guobaorou, but they are all good in their own rights. Just hope that the kitchen is able to walk that fine line between sweet and sour to achieve the perfect balance.