P.F. Chang's Most Popular Menu Items, Ranked Worst To Best

For over 30 years, P.F. Chang's has served guests an array of Chinese-influenced dishes in the chain restaurant style. At over 300 locations worldwide, guests can relax with plates of dumplings, fried rice, and wok-seared meats while simultaneously enjoying the predictable atmosphere of red booths, colorful cocktails, and even a bit of television. Though far from an avid P.F. Chang's regular, I've long considered the pan-Asian restaurant conglomerate a cut above its competition — The Cheesecake Factory, Applebee's, Benihana, and the like can't quite hold a candle to P.F.'s extensive menu offerings (some of which are available as frozen meals found in supermarkets) in my mind's eye.

Maybe Chang's owes its elevated status in my imagination to the gilded, oversized horse statues nearly every P.F. Chang's rests at its gates to welcome guests into the maroon and black themed dining rooms, or possibly it's the chains' differentiation from the typical American-fare most corporate eateries depend on. Despite my confident, positive opinion of the Scottsdale, Arizona-born franchise, I realized decades have elapsed since I sat in one of P.F. Chang's dining rooms and cracked open one of the restaurant's branded fortunes. So, to refamiliarize myself, I tried P.F. Chang's most iconic dishes from its eclectic menu and rated them from worst to best based on taste.

All recommendations are based on first-hand impressions of promotional materials and products provided by the manufacturer/distributor/etc. for sampling.

Hot and sour is almost like an obligatory soup to order from a Chinese restaurant. Admittedly, I've always opted to start off my Chinese food feast with egg drop soup rather than the alternative, even though I do appreciate the juxtaposition of tang and smoke contained in most hot and sour soups. However, P.F. Chang's rendition looked suspicious even from a distance.

Several shades deeper than any other hot and sour I've experienced, Chang's recipe possibly leaned heavily on dark soy sauce to achieve its startlingly darkened color, and its shade predicted the underwhelming and frankly confusing product. Along with the gloomy hue, P.F.'s hot and sour soup's texture proved equally dissuading as my tablemate ladled the contents of the communal bowl into our single-portioned soup bowls and showed a consistency I've seen only matched in unset Jell-O. The substance was syrup-like thick, clinging to every rehydrated mushroom, tofu slice, and bamboo shoot. The broth still adhered to our tongues even after several sips of water. Over-salted and more acrid than sour, P.F. Chang's classic starter puddled into a nonsensical soup with the entire group.

With a menu name as eye-catching as Dynamite Shrimp, the featured dish should deliver a bang as its moniker suggests. Unfortunately, P.F. Chang's famous crustacean dish landed with a thud on the table as we spied and sampled the supposedly exciting appetizer.

Confoundingly cut into half-inch chunks, the shrimp dish arrived in fried, bite-sized portions covered in a salmon-colored concoction I assumed was akin to a sriracha mayonnaise sauce. While my hypothesis held true, there was also an incongruous sweet element, perhaps to encourage the aforementioned sauce to cohere with the seafood bits. The results — however well intended — cause a jarring clash on the palette that refused to marry with the shrimp's natural flavors. The final result veers into almost science fiction-like territory and brings back memories of strange family meals thrown together in desperation and mismeasured creativity. While the sting of the peculiar sauce would dominate the dish no matter what, plating the shrimp whole would lessen the uncanniness of the dish's overall presentation.

An all-star standout at P.F. Chang's competitor, Panda Express, and one of our most anticipated plates at the horse-adorned restaurant, the orange chicken — though visually appealing — disenchanted the table. So vibrantly sunny-hued, I couldn't help but wonder if the kitchen sneaked a squirt of food coloring to achieve its signature coloring. Underneath the uniformed little nuggets' orange-colored sauce was a hefty dusting of battering that's been deep-fried.

Though the cooking of the chicken hunks was impressive, the citrus sauce coating the crispy layers decided on too literal a reading of the Americanized Chinese dish. An orange flavor so distinct that my dining companions compared the glaze to Minute Maid soda, orange juice concentrate, and even Tic-Tac candies. Almost as if Jon Hamm's character in "30 Rock" entered P.F. Chang's kitchen and commanded the staff to pour a generous portion of orange Gatorade (his secret ingredient in the meal he makes Liz Lemon) into the saucepot, our orange chicken smacked too heavily of dense orange flavor without the nuance of heat.

Another menu item I expected to be a solid standby on P.F. Chang's menu that fell short of what I consider on par is its oddly sauced dumplings, which were impossible not to compare to the consistently good dumplings at Din Tai Fung. P.F. Chang fries its crescent-shaped, pork-filled dumplings and serves them pre-sauced with a dollop of thick chili sauce resting on the dumpling skins as they drop tableside.

The ground pork hidden between the dumpling folds remained tender, if not slightly undersalted, and the casings themselves were pleasantly toothsome. However, the char on one side of each dumpling, matched with the globs of sauce, drove the dumplings off course overall. Historically, I appreciate and even gravitate to pan-kissed dumplings over simply boiled or deep-fried varietals, but the skins of P.F.'s dumplings refused to crisp and instead resembled the sad duel-face anti-hero of "Phantom of the Opera." Simply amending the sauce to one that's lighter and spicier and allowing guests to douse the chili oil as they please over the dumpling could greatly amplify the strengths the dish had going.

In what might be the greatest lost opportunity on P.F. Chang's menu, the restaurant interprets its crispy green beans not as a classic Chinese starter but as an Americanized bar dish. Instead of offering a brief respite from filling, fried, and carbohydrate-laden dishes such as fried rice, crab wontons, and dumplings, Chang's crispy green beans add to it. They are deep-fried and coated in a tempura-like batter, as opposed to the blistered, wok-fried delights I'm accustomed to accompanying my Chinese meal.

Far from an abomination, the crispy green beans simply misread their intended purpose, leaning too heavily into chain-restaurant fare a la Outback Steakhouse's Blooming Onion or Chili's fried pickles and tipping into the territory of fried foods without the elemental pleasures that mozzarella sticks or jalapeno poppers reliably provide. Served alongside a ramekin of spicy mayonnaise (an ingredient perhaps overused on the menu), the crispy green beans' batter wilted quickly and suffered breakage once dipped in the mayonnaise.

Though easily my favorite Chinese dish of all time, finding a perfect plate of Mongolian beef proves more demanding than expected, and I'm still searching for the restaurant with my ideal marriage of seared strips of salty beef and crunchy scallions. So, when tasked with tasting my way through over a dozen P.F. Chang's classics, I let my heart flutter at the opportunity to sample what could be the Mongolian beef I've searched my whole life for.

But, despite my high hopes, Chang's Mongolian beef tasted more akin to a plate of teriyaki as the meat smacked of sweet sauce as opposed to the overtly savory, garlic-infused beef dish I anticipated. And though the flank steak remained tender and even boasted the burnt ends I love, the slightly crisp exterior I associate with Mongolian beef was omitted. It's an avoidable folly, especially considering the amount of other dishes wherein the meat sports a crunchy shell. While scallions smothered the plate, the green allium lacked any char and arrived nearly raw. So, my hunt for the quintessential Mongolian Beef remains ongoing.

Crab wontons (and Rangoons) are an undeniable American-Chinese classic. The almost absurd appeal of crab (usually imitation) and cream cheese sheathed in deep-fried dumpling skins will always have a place on my banquet table. Oddly, P.F. Chang's version lacked the indulgent note that truly great crab wontons must have. P.F. Chang's crab wontons arrived optimally crispy, but, like the Dynamite Shrimp, the corporate kitchen behind the brand chose to plate the morsels pre-sauced instead of allowing guests to choose their own amount of sauce.

In what seems like a purely visual decision, the crab wontons are plated above a slick swath of "spicy" plum sauce, but the moisture from the sugar sauce is able to seep into the wonton's foundation. Moreover, the wonton filling was surprisingly undersalted, and the ratio of crab to cream cheese desperately lacked more of the dairy component to ensure a velvety mouth feel.

Another surprising miss is P.F. Chang's combination fried rice. Like the crab wontons, the bowl of multi-meat studded fried rice tasted underseasoned and lacked the critical note of indulgent excess I link to eating fried rice. The issue was a frustrating unforeseen hangup for a brand I correlate with exaggerated flavors.

To be fair, the proteins — chicken, beef, and shrimp — were cooked on point, and none of the meats suffered from dryness despite their respective varied cook times. Similarly, the rice itself is visually presented as an impeccable example of fried rice, as each individual grain refrained from sticking to its identical neighbor. I resorted to abandoning my gold-plated chopsticks in favor of the less sophisticated spoon while sampling the dish. But I found it far more pleasing when employed as a bed beneath one of P.F. Chang's superior dishes and soaked in neighboring sauces, nearly satisfying my craving for egg-laced rice. Still, on its own, the fried rice cried for salt, soy sauce, or even MSG.

The Great Wall of Chocolate Cake genuinely provoked a chuckle from my oil-lined lips as our server dropped the monstrosity of a cake slice. With so much going on — the berry sauce, fresh berries, chocolate frosting, six layers, semi-sweet chocolate chips encrusting one side, and the sheer size of the slice, I had to examine the dessert to fully appreciate all of its over-the-top elements.

With little expectation, I found the treat more pleasing than several high-end restaurants' cake offerings, and The Great Wall of Chocolate Cake managed to scale the heights of everything an enormous slice of dessert promises. The frosting thankfully remained sweet but uncloying, the berry compote met the density of the cake's foundation with a complementary fruity zing, and the bitty chocolate chips proved texturally interesting despite not expecting to like them. Enough to share among a table of four, a single order of The Great Wall of Chocolate Cake ensures that chocolate lovers leave on a high note.

In a menu swarming with tempting chicken options — kung pao, crispy honey, orange, sweet and sour, etc. — the more mild-mannered sesame chicken risks getting lost in the bouquet of choices. Especially considering how most of the poultry mains resemble each other — battered, fried, then doused with sticky sauces of varying shades of auburn — I probably wouldn't have gotten P.F. Chang's sesame chicken for the table if I were solely in charge of ordering.

Thankfully, the inclusion of sesame chicken more than counterbalanced any missteps I encountered throughout my meal. Though both battered and fried, the overall shape of the sesame chicken pieces resonated as less nugget-esque than the orange chicken and also showcased a more dexterous proportion of sauce to protein ratio. Beyond a sturdy foundation, Chang's sesame chicken sauce showed restraint and balanced the dish's supporting players — red peppers, chunks of onion, and broccoli — were all seared just enough to leave an optimal amount of bite to the vegetables, adding to the pleasurable contrast of moist chicken and verdant crispness.

If you had to reread the heading of this slide, you're not alone; when the server set the gooey plate of banana spring rolls on our table while describing the dish's name and core elements, I, too, did a double-take before diving in. As skeptical as I was when my fork approached the fried and sliced sweet spring rolls, any preconceived notions of the dessert's viability disappeared once I allowed myself to cave into the narcotic-like pleasure of the inventive dish.

While I'm not a typical banana-leaning dessert fan, P.F. Chang's spring rolls refrain from the artificial intensity of Runt candies or banana specialty drinks. Instead, there was a soft, even slimy distinction to the extra crispy eggroll skins. Decorated with a subtle and conservative amount of vanilla and caramel drizzle, the eggrolls had a scoop of coconut pineapple ice cream on the side, lending the entire dessert pleasant tropical undertones.

The only drawback to P.F.'s legendary dessert lies in the hazard of suffering a minor burn to the roof of the mouth or tongue if the contents of the deep-fried eggrolls are not allowed to cool to a manageable eating temperature first.

Though far from the more indulgent fare I equate to P.F. Chang's (and other nostalgic chain restaurants) charm, the restaurant's lettuce wraps soared to the upper echelons of their offerings within bites. An equilibrium of texture and flavor, Chang's allows guests to assemble their own lettuce cups tableside and choose the portion of greens, fried rice noodles, ground chicken mixture, and sauce to include in the snack.

What's more, the chicken mixture (resembling that of a Thai larb) meets its other elements seamlessly; bits of water chestnuts and celery chunks are chopped into nearly identical-sized segments and combined with the well-seasoned ground meat, creating one of the most standout dishes I've enjoyed at any chain establishment. The crispy rice noodles thoughtfully prevent the sauce from overtaking the appetizer and provide a buffer between the romaine lettuce and the wetter components. The expert-level cook on the chicken alone elevates Chang's lettuce wraps to must-have status, and every so often, scattered in the mix, one deliciously burnt bite of ground chicken would enter the frame and leave me looking for more.

One of P.F. Chang's menu's items deemed worthy of donning the surname of the restaurant itself, Chang's spicy chicken, reached the peak of the chain's extensive menu. While visually tricky to differentiate from many of the other chicken-centric offerings, Chang's spicy chicken proves capable of grabbing hold of the chain's strengths — lightly battered chicken, sticky sauces, and a consistent expert wok-fry — and transporting them to heights rarely reached by massive conglomerates.

On par with McDonald's breakfast potatoes, Raising Cane's Texas toast, or Olive Garden's (unlimited) breadsticks and minestrone soup combo, P.F.'s Chang's spicy chicken somehow justifies the entire restaurant chain with this single dish. Undiscernible from either a Chinese fine dining food escapade or a locally adored mom-and-pop hole-in-the-wall, Chang's spicy chicken carries no whiff or draft of the chain's mass appeal and instead levels up the entire P.F. Chang's experience. Though not as spicy as the dish's title implies, the chili sauce resonates with a zingy sweetness, and the bites of chicken breast were delivered tender and immaculately fried. Flecks of charred scallions confetti the dish, providing a crunchy greenness fit for an emperor. Hats off to Chang's spicy chicken for somehow becoming more integral to a P.F. Chang's evening as one of their branded fortune cookies.

As stated in the opening, I ranked each of the items I sampled from P.F. Chang's menu based on taste. However, to help identify the most popular dishes from the chain's multiple storefronts, I worked with a P.F. Chang's public relations team member who assisted in selecting the dishes that best fit this article. While my curiosity still ponders menu items like the Asian Caesar salad, the chili garlic green beans, or any of the restaurant's many noodle dishes, their popularity and rate of ordering must sit substantially below the dishes covered in this ranking.

Moreover, to ensure I tested each dish at its peak, my server at the P.F. Chang's location in Bridgeport Village in Tigard, Oregon sent the kitchen my order in waves to avoid any item cooling, congealing, or settling into a less than ideal form of what the kitchen prepares daily. In fact, my experience was greatly heightened by the P.F. Chang's staff, who had a genuine interest in both the restaurant and our evening. The entirety of the cocktail menu was omitted from this article in preference for food items and to leave room for a future P.F. Chang's cocktail ranking.