If there’s a New York City import that the food-conscious folks of Orlando should get excited about, it’s this Chinese barbecue joint by way of Flushing, Queens. Friendship BBQ is the name, and since its debut in 2016, the restaurant has expanded to eight other urban centers, from Boston to Seattle to L.A. to Houston. Landing one in li’l ole Orlando may seem like a surprising coup until you take into consideration our thriving, multi-ethnic Asian citizenry. Friendship BBQ owner Lei Chen says his goal is to let everyone in the world know about authentic Chinese barbecue, and if you’re not familiar with the term lu chuan’r, you’ll certainly get familiar with its motions by the time you’re through at Friendship BBQ.
Lu chuan’r is colloquial Mandarin for the sideward action of stripping through a skewer of grilled meat with your teeth. In fact, there’s a marquee on the back wall of the West Colonial Drive restaurant that says “Just Lu It,” and that’s precisely what Beijingers have done since the trend consumed the city’s streets just two decades ago. That trend originated in Xinjiang, the autonomous region in Northwestern China where ethnic Muslim Uyghurs feast on chuan’r, the Chinese equivalent of kushiyaki — specifically, morsels of cumin-spiced lamb skewered and roasted over an open flame.
On Friendship’s menu, it’s called Xinjiang Special Lamb ($4.49). I tore through those succulent chunks in the same ravenous manner as I did the chicken gizzards ($5.99) and the “Mongolia” beef ($4.49). I mean, the roster of skewered options at FBBQ is impressive — there’s about 50 from which to choose, and not all cater to meat-eaters. Our server raved about the grilled stinky tofu ($5.49) and, while I wasn’t as enthused as she was about the pungent protein, I lauded her recommendation of crown daisy ($9.99), aka chrysanthemum greens. And don’t worry about your skewers getting cold — servers place them on a tableside wood chafer lit by a couple of Sterno cans.
Two of our more notable orders: grilled quail ($7.99) that didn’t need the salt/pepper/lime dip served at Vietnamese restaurants, and — hold on to your cossets — lamb testicles ($3.99). I’ve never munched on the crown jewels of a ruminant before and, well, now I can say that I have.
Speaking of nuts, a bowl of spicy boiled peanuts is served the moment you sit down — something to nosh on while perusing the lengthy bill of fare. We also sucked on cold apps like chicken feet in sweet lemon sauce ($14.99) and slurped on lamb soup ($17.99) with thin strips of meat in a pure broth dotted with what looked like dried dates, though I couldn’t confirm what they were exactly.
But the showstopper here is undoubtedly the grilled fish ($48.99). It isn’t just grilled, but served in a blazing rectangular iron hot pot, gurgling in a chili-oiled liquid with tofu and sprouts and mushrooms. The tilapia is topped with an infernal garlic-chili paste of sorts, and sprinkled with sesame seeds. This one got my pulse racing — fitting, perhaps, given the restaurant’s decor gave off all the Speed Racer vibes, though I’m not sure why the shelves at Friendship BBQ are lined with fake books. I didn’t really care to ask.
What matters is that the food here is the real deal and there’s a lot of it — more than you can shake a stick at.
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This article appears in Jun 14-20, 2023.
