Therein lies a tale. A Tea House tale.

Last night, we ended up at the new University location of the Tea House, a small set of Chinese restaurants that dot the Twin Cities from the Western suburbs to East St. Paul.

I haven't been to any of the others, but the first thing you notice at the new location is the incredibly striking decor. It's a lavish mix of modern and iconic, that walks right up to tacky, introduces itself, then wanders off in a whole other direction.

So after some inquiries to the waiter, I decided on the pan-fried pork belly. I don't go to a lot of restaurants that serve pork belly, and certainly not to many that serve it in a $13 entree. And it arrived, and man, was it good. Deep wok-seared flavors, plenty of salt, and, for the first time in my life, the odd numbing effect of Szechuan peppercorns.

Bits of flavorful meat mingled with thin strips of mostly-celery. It wasn't over-sauced, but there was just enough to impart some of the flavor to the white rice.

But something strange kept happening. The waiter kept asking me how I liked the "hot pork stomach". I thought he was just making a play on "pork belly", and the meat had roughly the same meat-to-fat ratio I expect from pork belly or bacon, so I paid it no mind. Except for a nagging sense that I was being checked in on by someone who thought I was eating it on a dare. You know that feeling? Where they're waiting for the suburban showoff to get grossed out, or blown away by the spices, or whatever? A bit of that.

And then the bill arrived, and the bill said "hot pork stomach" on it, for a price that was a full two bucks cheaper than the dish I ordered. And upon reflection, I remembered seeing "hot pork stomach" as an item on the back page of specials.

So yeah. I think I may have eaten pork stomach by accident. And liked it. And I'm gonna eat the leftovers. And maybe, if I go to Tea House enough to satisfy my curiosity with the rest of the menu, I'll order it again.