The word spread slowly at first. A caller left a message asking if I had heard about a Sichuan place in the suburbs. An e-mail from a colleague related that a friend from the gym had told him about an amazing Chinese restaurant in Medford Square. Finally, Nina Simonds, a friend and authority on Chinese cooking, left a phone message, saying she hadn't had Sichuan food this good outside of Cheng Du, the province capital. Just order the Sichuan specialities, she said, by way of advice.

That sent me off on a cold Sunday night to a nondescript restaurant in a little strip of shops and restaurants in Medford Square. Chilli Garden, brightly lighted with only a few notes of decoration, was packed. We were the only non-Asians.

When you go to an ethnic restaurant, it's reassuring to see the room full of those who know authenticity. However, it's also a little intimidating. But we plunged in, ordering cold noodles with chili sauce, bamboo shoots with chili sauce, and hot-and-sour shrimp chowder to start. Most of us associate Sichuan food with searing spice, and it is true that many of the dishes are spiked with chili peppers or powder. But in a later phone interview, Chilli Garden's owner, Zheng Hu, stresses that the flavors come not just from the heat of chilis but from Sichuan pepper and other spices. She and the chef, Hui Zeng, are striving to be authentic in all the cooking and import ingredients from the Sichuan Province, she says.

The cold noodles come piled in a bowl: firm, long egg noodles topped with bits of smoky chili peppers, peanuts, and green onions. The bottom of the bowl holds the chili sauce, so it's necessary to use chopsticks to twirl the noodles, coating them with the fiery sauce. The result is a delicious contrast of a taste of hot against the more neutral and cool noodle.

Bamboo shoots with plenty of garlic and chili sauce gave off an even more fiery heat, especially pleasing against the slight crunch of the little vegetables.

It's hard to decide what's most pronounced in the extraordinary hot-and-sour shrimp chowder. Here chili powder gives a pronounced blast of heat to the broth. Yet there's also that sour kick of Chinese vinegar deepening the flavors. And the ingredients -- tiny pink shrimp, fresh green peas, cubes of carrot --

all taste barely cooked so that the result is a fresh and lively chowder. On a second visit, we consult with the owner, who also waits tables, to sample some more unusual dishes. One is green mung bean starch that is mixed with cold water, then boiled and cooled, and then formed into sheets that are cut into wide noodles and served again with chili oil. Sichuanese, like most Chinese, are as interested in texture as they are in flavors and this dish is a prime example. The noodles slide down like silk, yet have an interesting resistance when nibbled.

Wild mushrooms, which resemble boletus in appearance and fragrance, make up another dish. Flecked with bits of green peppers, the big slices of mushrooms are meaty and earthy, now and then spiked with a hint of Sichuan black pepper.

However, it's a much milder dish, giving us license to taste a soupy bowl of ma po dou fu, or tofu in a searing sauce of hot chili paste strewn with scallions. Each perfectly cut little cube of tofu conveys the spicy sauce yet has a mild, cool core, a lovely sensation on the tongue.

Chilli Garden has a nightly specials list (as well as a full menu of Mandarin dishes). Since the specials are written in Chinese characters, it's necessary to confer with the waitstaff -- but well worth it. We try a homey and satisfying dish of pork spareribs on the bone, cut about 2 inches long, with slivers of garlic, bamboo shoots, and sauteed spinach. The pork is tender, and the dark sauce tastes of Sichuan pepper and probably rice wine; it's one of those dishes, like beef stew or pot au feu, that warms a winter's night in many cuisines.

Whole fish are prominent on Sichuan menus. Unlike Hong Kong or Cantonese cooking, though, the fish isn't steamed with garlic and ginger, but usually braised in sauce. One evening we order a whole fish with Sichuan pickled cabbage. The waiter brings out a dramatic platter of a red snapper, pink tail still intact, covered with a pale green sauce. The sauce, slightly tangy and crunchy, lilts against the clean, mild flesh of the fish. That evening, our appetites wane before every dish is finished, but the fish is picked clean by the end of the meal.

The next visit, we try whole fish with hot bean sauce. It's just as spectacular: the fish covered in a dark sauce that's slightly spicy, slightly sweet, and is studded with tiny fermented black beans.

Finding Chilli Garden is one of those serendipitous happenings -- delicious, authentic food in a simple setting with prices that are amazingly low. I'm glad the word-of-mouth worked and am hungry for more.

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