Pell Street these days is two quiet blocks, no more, but Chinatown was born here, where Doyers Street dead-ends into Pell, where tour guides still talk of tongs and mah-jongg.

At night, on Pell’s eastern end, pilgrims queue for soup dumplings at Joe’s Shanghai. They may not notice Taiwan Bear House, which opened last June, with its teddy-bear logo suggesting just another perky bubble-tea shop.

But see those towers of empty wooden bento boxes in the window? They’re waiting to be filled. First a bed of rice, then a layer of minced pork simmered down to a near gravy. On one side, garlicky cabbage, barely wilted in a wok, still crunchy and bright. On the other, half a hard-boiled egg, inked with soy, and a dense pressed square of dry tofu with sweet seams of star anise.

Over this may lie a pork chop hammered thin and sealed inside an improbably fluffy crust, or pork belly in slices thick as cake, with descending horizons of lean and fat, or chicken freed of its bones and deep-fried twice, so the crispy shell of skin turns chewy where it clings to the flesh.