930 Race Street, 215-928-0282 Open daily, Sun.-Thurs., 4 p.m.-3 a.m.; Fri.-Sat., 4 p.m.-4 a.m. Wheelchair access. No reservations. BYOB. Major credit cards.

Last week in this column, we explored the world of Chinese Fusion at Bryn Mawr’s Yangming, all white tablecloths and wine lists. At Shiao Lan Kung, a modest restaurant in Chinatown, the menu seems simpler, more traditional. But it proves not so simple after all — a gastronomic journey that can take you to the fundamental heart of China or to the glittering towers of Hong Kong.

Back when won ton soup and chow mein and egg rolls were still considered exotic, Americans assumed this was what Cantonese cooking was all about. Then, after Nixon went to China in the ’70s, Szechuan and Hunan cuisine came to us on peppery waves of hot and sour soup and chicken Szechuan-style. You can get these dishes and many more at Shiao Lan Kung, but if you looked no further you would be missing the essence of true Cantonese cooking, one of the great cuisines of the world.

Man Lee, the owner-chef, hails from South China, and cooked in Hong Kong until he came here in 1976. The weather in southern China is warmer than in the north, where the fiery cuisine warms the body. Cantonese cooking is more subtle, more ingredient-driven, putting great emphasis on fresh vegetables and herbs. Lee brought his knowledge to the venerable Imperial Inn and worked there until 1987. Now he’s here with his family in this cheery restaurant, with spiffy new tiles and Chinese prints on the walls, and yellow orchids on the tables.

There are always people queuing up for a table, and smiling, busy waiters, and mostly everyone already seated is enjoying the steamed dumplings ($4). They are tender and gently seasoned, and come fried as well, with a light dipping sauce of soy and vinegar. But I convince my friends to try something different, something mysterious, and we receive a platter of thousand-year eggs with a tangle of jellyfish in the middle ($9.50). The hard-cooked eggs only look that old, of course, and have been treated in such a way that the white turns to gelled amber, and the yolks, despite their grayish color, remain runny. With the slightly gelatinous, ginger-spiked, marine crunch of jellyfish, the smoky flavor of the eggs and the liquid yolk tying it all together, the sensual contrasts are enormous. To my surprise, everyone loves them, and is eager to move on to thinly sliced giant clam ($15.95), a special that night. It’s amazingly tender and briny and sparked by yellow chives, more subtle than the green variety.

Washing everything down with cold white wine, we proceed through succulent braised beef with ginger, mellowed by a hint of camphor ($7.95), and tender chunks of duck, stewed with shiitake mushrooms ($8.95). There is plenty of rice, of course, and a side order of water spinach ($7) — a vibrantly green vegetable that tastes a bit like watercress and a bit like broccoli rabe. The only thing we are not thrilled with is sautéed conch with duck paw ($12.95). This conch is too tough for us, and the meat of the duck paw (foot), though off the bone, is gristly and bland. Even the crisp Chinese vegetables don’t relieve the dish. We chalk it up to experience and finish our repast with orange slices and fortune cookies, still marveling at the truly gentle prices when the check comes. (If you need a more substantial dessert, there’s always St. Honoré bakery across Race Street for buns with sweet bean paste or more traditional pastries.)

It’s still not enough for me, so at 4 o’clock one day when the restaurant is just opening, I sneak back to try more. In the quiet of the afternoon, the fish tank bubbles and incense wafts in the air. I complain to Mrs. Lee that I’m feeling tired, and she has just the thing — mashed beef soup with egg drop ($4.95). This is basically egg drop soup enriched with shreds of meat, getting its kicks from cilantro and added red wine vinegar. I feel its warmth down to the center of my fatigue, and am miraculously restored. She smiles, "Americans are smart. They go where the Chinese are."

Bring on the pork intestine with pickled cabbage ($8.95), I say, and receive a hefty plate of the most tender and delicious tripe I’ve ever had, mixed with black beans and crunchy cabbage. Then there’s sautéed Chinese sausage ($8.95) on a bed of mixed vegetables in which I discern squash, onions and what I’m told is preserved white carrot (somewhat like a turnip). I think I prefer Italian sausage, but the whole experience is a blast of tastes — unfamiliar at first, then touching familiar notes in the sensory memory bank.

"Now it’s time for salt-baked frog," says Mrs. Lee. "Frog? Where do they come from?" "Oh, there’s plenty of them in the basement," she replies. I have a sudden picture of them, reclining Ophelia-like in tiny coffins, but dismiss it quickly, for the crunchy, meaty morsels set before me are great. They are deep-fried but totally greaseless, for somehow quick frying and the salt in the crust seal in the flavor. I always thought that frog’s legs were better than the chicken that they are supposed to taste like, and this is no exception. The meat is delicate, and you can chew on the little bones if you like. The Chinese certainly do.

Even I can run out of steam, and while I chew an orange slice I tell Mrs. Lee how much I enjoyed, not only the different tastes and ingredients, but the sure, understated way the Lees handle the quotidian dishes to which we’re accustomed. Then I remember to ask about the thousand-year eggs — how are they made? "We buy them at the grocery store. You know, they are a lot of work," says she.

You know, whenever I ask chefs around town where they go after hours, many of them say Shiao Lan Kung. At 3 a.m., I can see them too, being restored to life by a steaming bowl of beef egg drop soup.