Cha Xiu Bao

Slow-braised pork belly: Dongpo Pork (東坡肉)

I couldn't agree more to Stephen of EatingChina when he observes that China is a nation of pork eaters. If truth be told, there're thousands ways to cook this animal -- all different parts of it, in and out. And among all these pork cuisines, the most celebrated and distinguished one is got to be the Dongpo (or Tongpo) pork, or slow-braised pork belly. To me, this dish is indisputably the Monarch of Chinese pork cuisine. While most of you I guess know what exactly it is, and some, I am pretty sure, has even inhaled the fat of it in various occasions, I wonder is there anyone of you really know the story about it. If not, allow me to tell you the funny tale of this pork.

First of all, Dongpo pork is not named after a region, nor after a part of the pork. At the risk of being verbose, I must say it is named after a poet, a writer, a painter, a calligrapher and -- please note -- a damn good gourmet called Su Dongpo of the Sung Dynasty. So fond of pork was Su that not only did he come up with an array of recipes for pork cooking, but also to even write a poem called "Ode to Pork" 《豬肉頌》when he was serving duty in a small county called Huangzhou. The ode goes like this Chinese:

"黃州好豬肉，價賤如泥土。
貴人不肯吃，貧人不解煮。
慢著火，少著水，火候足時他自美。"

the English translation, by yours truly the amateurish translator, reads like this:

"Pork in Huangzhou is plenty
there it costs utterly lowly
The rich detest it; the poor fluff it
slow the fire, hold the water, it comes alive when the time is right"

Another funny thing is that the legend have us believe that the creation of Dongpo pork is purely the result of a fluke. It says that Su Dongpo prepared the pork and asked his servants to send them to labors with some wine (rice wine, that is) too, which his servants mistook to cook the pork with some wine -- and thence, to the luck of ours, the coming of Dongpo pork.

On the other hand, the keyword for Dongpo pork is "timing." Heat it with the gentlest fire and braise it as slowly as possible to make the texture into the tenderest being (one ancient recipe requires the meat be cooked from sunrise to sunset). The addition of wine all the more makes its texture more fragile. Watch out, it just fall apart upon the tip of your chopsticks.

Though the vast majority of Chinese restaurants tends to sell Dongpo pork as a dish from the Hangzhou region, there are still a handful of places in China to have pork cooked in similar way, regions such as Beijing, Canton, Sichaun and Yunan, to name but a few. In fact, it is customary in Yunan for a marrying couple to share a cassolette (made of ceramic, like that in the picture) of Dongpo-like pork in their wedding banquet in front of guests whereas in Sichuan, the recipe varies a bit since Sichuanese prefers frying to drying the pork briefly before the stew. The Hangzhou version, which claims to be the best of all, prohibits the use of water in total and stews the pork with only Shaxing wine. The result: a pork that is as soft as fresh bean curd. Velvety but never oily, oozing from every bite the perfect match of the distinctive fragrance of Shaoxing wine and the sweetness of meat.

So Mr. Su, on behalf of all carnivores, a toast to your Dongpo pork!

Dragon Well Tea Before Ching Ming: Ming chin long jing (明前龍井)

清明 杜牧

清明時節雨紛紛
路上行人慾斷魂
借問酒家何處有
牧童遙指杏花村

Grave Sweeping Day by Du Mu
On Grave Sweeping Day the rain drizzles endlessly
a traveler on the road feels his heart sink
where he asks can he buy some wine
the herdboy points off to a hamlet nestling amidst apricot blossoms far away

In early April we will celebrate the Ching Ming Festival, also known as "Spring Remembrance" or 'Grave Sweeping Day', and this poem by Du Mu of the Tang Dynasty is simply the most famous one for this occasion. In this Ching Ming ("clear and bright") day, most of us will make every effort to return home to honor our deceased parents and ancestors. In front of their graves, we will burn some incense sticks, paper offerings like paper money and paper clothes and clear away the weeds that have grown up since last visit... But before I do all that jazz, I will head to the tea shop and buy myself, not the deceased, some ming chin long jing (明前龍井), or dragon well before the Ching Ming Festival, which some argue is the best (and most expensive!) among all Chinese green tea.

The most famous place for making this dragon well tea is the West Lake of the Hangzhou Province. In fact, green tea connoisseurs swallow only those from this locale. Though there are scores of village producing long jing, the Première Cru selections are produced by only 5 villages in this area. The five villages, so-called the Big 5 are elegantly named as the "Lion, Dragon, Clouds, Tiger and Plum,"  with tea from the first regarded by most as the 'crème de la crème.'

But why does ming chin long jing cost so much? It is mostly because the production cycle is very short: only ten days before the Ching Ming Festival every year. Before that the leaf is not ready but thence it is overripe and will reduce to a lower grade (still consider quite prestigious nonetheless) called yu chin long jing (雨前龍井), or dragon well before the Rain (a rainy day in Chinese lunar calender, about half a month later than the Ching Ming Festival). In this 10-day span, the sprouts at the tip of the stalks are exquisitely hand-picked by seasoned workers. After the harvest, the leaf are dried for 3 to 4 hours. Then the 'tea master' will fry the tea briefly for 30 minutes to get rid of its grassy smell (a process called "killing the green"). A catty of premium long jing usually takes about 60000 to 70000 heads of sprout.

Tasting wise, the aroma for Ming chin long jing smells quite like that of orchid. For the palate, it is fresh and vibrant with suggestions of olive and, believe it or not, egg yolk. If, you can find it and most importantly -- afford it, you may as well tell yourself this is the Romanee-Conti of Chinese tea. The best ratio, so the tea masters will tell you, is 1 to 12 (one portion of tea leaf to 12 portions of water), not boiling hot but water at about 80℃. You pour the water in and let it brew for about 3-5 minutes before imbibe. And like fine wine, it is always better to use glass to brew long jing so that you can admire the sight of the tea in addition to its smell and flavor as well. Indeed, don't just drink it: long jing is a tea with life! Watch it. Watch the leaf turning and nibbling in the glass is by itself a great joy -- what tea connoisseurs called "The Dance of Tea."

-- picture courtesy of BJBusiness.com.cn

Who Moved My Za Jiang Mein (炸酱面)?

What, you expect me to eat this mein plain? Seriously, I am not trying to make a mockery of that self-improvement classic (naming no name). This is the real title for a hit song in China of late. So popular is it that quite a handful of people have started using the song as ring tone for their cellies. Well, quite a cool choice for a foodie's cellie, ain't it?

Leaving the ring tone aside, the most common version of za jiang mein (炸酱面), or noodles with fried (pork) sauce, usually uses ground pork as the main ingredient. Either the lean cut or the fat one will do (though most mein aficionados would confess they only use the fattier cut around the rump because the sauce tastes better in that way). However, the pork sauce is by no means the only version for za jiang mein; it has thousand faces with ingredients like dried shrimp, eggs, shredded bean curd and eggplant also used. Either way, the best sauce should be juicy but never oily even after the fry.

The version featured here is one of my mom's special in which she uses the same portion of beer to blend the bean sauce with so that the two form an emulsified sauce before the fry. This way, the sauce won't get too thick and firm after the fry. For, mind you, we still need to mix the sauce with the noodle before we eat it. Another good thing about adding beer to the bean sauce is that less oil is needed when we fry.

Ingredients:
Vegetable oil: 1/4 to 1/2 cup 
Ground pork (fatty): 1/2 to 3/4 lb
Bean sauce: 5 to 6 tsp
Sugar: 2 to 3 tsp
Beer: 5 to 6 tsp
Fresh Chinese noodles: 1 lb
Chopped scallions: 1/4 cup
Bean sprouts: 1/4 cup
Cucumber shreds: 1/4 cup
Chopped garlic: 1/6 cup
Chili: if desired

Direction:
Heat the oil in the wok. When the oil is ready, add the garlic and then the pork. Fry briefly.
Blend the bean sauce with the beer.
Add the mixed sauce, sprinkle the sugar into the wok and cook, stir until the sauce is piping hot (about 10 mins).
Turn off the heat and start to boil the noodles.
Drain the noodles thoroughly and place into a bowl.
Spoon over the sauce. Garnish with the scallions, bean sprouts and cucumber shreds.

Serves: 1 Servings.

Trick of the trade:
Use fresh Chinese noodle: the variety that is white in color (with no egg added).
The truth is, sadly for anyone who's on diet, lard is a better choice than the vegetable or peanut oil for this mein.
No salt is used because the bean sauce is salty enough. If anything, people in the northern part of China love to eat it in sweeter flavor.

The Chaxiubao Code with steamed rice mixed with lard (豬油撈飯)

Chaxiubao knows nothing about the Da Vinci Code, nor anything about Mr. Dan Brown. No. He despises any gastronomic thriller or edible conspiracy theory in general. Hang them all. And while this title has nothing to do with Christianity, it has everything to do with the Trinity. You see, on the top right there're a holy bowl holding steamed rice, top left a holy jar bearing lard and the bottom a holy kettle carrying premium soy sauce.

So Chaxiubao pours the lard and the soy sauce into the holy bowl... What becomes next? The uncovering of the Holy Grail: steamed rice mixed with lard, or chu yau no fan (豬油撈飯). Hallelujah! Dirt poor yet tasty, giving you those all-that-you-can-handle readings in the calories barometer. So for someone who's in his or her pilgrimage for fat-free diet without end, this is the Demon... But for someone who's in perpetual quest for good food, this is the Angel. Eat it like it is the last supper.

雞毛菜: The Chicken's feather veggie

I don't know how's the weather in your place, but in the place Chaxiubao resides, it doesn't take a weatherman to suss out spring is in the air. Well, what does it spell for the plate? It means the wait is over and now is the ripe time to whet our appetite with some bak choy, or Chinese cabbage. Correct me if I'm off base, I do think bak choy is a green that's truly indigenous to China as I have yet to see in other places I've been to.

There are many kinds of bak choy in China but two are most common: the big and the small. We call the big bak choy as wong nga choy (黄芽菜) and the smaller as simply as tsing choy (青菜). The former is mainly grown in the northern side of Cheungjiang River whereas the latter mainly in the southern side. The smaller one is more nutritious comparatively.

But even that, to eat the full grown small bak choy (about 60 to 70 days old) is a disservice to this choy. That's why we Chinese, especially the Shanghaiese, love (or, just) to eat the seedlings of it (less than 20 days old), which is called gek mou choy (雞毛菜), or chicken's feather veggie.

The best way to appreciate this delicacy is to stir fry it with a ladleful of stock. Alternatively, you may see it made into a soup with potato (雞毛菜土豆湯).

Et tu, Siumai?

Chaxiubao strives hard to have all the funky things in the food business covered in his blog and the Japanese, with their craziness, never failed providing him with great stories, one after another. After their idiosyncratic sushi series for USB flash memory, the Japanese again outdone themselves to have the Siumai, along with a bunch of their originals added to the line-up. Whether you consider this a daylight assassin to your wallet (at over 68 euro a set, sans the steam basket), is none of Chaxiubao's business.

Rendez-vous avec Joel Robuchon

Terribly sorry for the lack of update lately. Just been quite snowed under these two weeks. Firstly with the new posting of my job and secondly with the exam for my wine-tasting course coming Friday. The French, when solely for food and wine seems rather easy to me, especially when using it to order food; yet, when for exam it all of a sudden become Greek. I am really having a hard time remembering what is soil "tufa" and what is guyot training. And the labels of wine from a place called Germany! Speaking of which, do you know that Charles V once quipped that he speaks Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to his horse?

While the above is the hard bit of my week to come, the bright side this week was a phone call from my sister telling me she's just reserved a table at Robuchon de Galera on May 21. Forgive me for stating the obvious, in case you still can't tell it by now, this restaurant, nestled in the Hotel Lisboa in Macau, is managed by Joel Robuchon.Yes, it is just one of the many restaurants under the "Robuchon" franchise. Be that as it may, on the very night she booked, Monsieur Robuchon will be there and host this perennial Gala Dinner night for his outlet. Yes, he who the Chef of the Century will show his flair to us on that very night! C'mon Monsieur Robuchon, just show me your worst!

Chung shuijao (鍾水餃): Chung's Dumplings

If you love chili and some time-stilling burning sensations in your throat, this one is gorgeous; if you dislike chili pepper and reject the idea of having your palate on fire, this one is outrageous. Simply put, Chung's dumplings are to ordinary dumplings as Mt. Pinatubo is to the Alps. The dissimilarities of Chung's dumplings to other dumplings in China are threefold: firstly, this is the only dumpling in China to have its founder's name attached. It is quite natural, considering the recipe of this dumpling was only created about 70 years ago by a hawker called Chung Siu Pak in the Sichuan province whilst other dumplings were eaten as early as 1600 years ago during the Zhui (隨) Dynasty.

Secondly, while other dumplings are served either in a bowl of broth or plainly with a saucer of vinegar to dip with, this one is bathed in the thick of bloody sea! But, then again, what else of Sichuanese food isn't sashayed to the table in red?

Thirdly, the fillings of Chung's dumplings has nothing else but pork whereas fillings of other dumplings are usually a mixture of meat and greens.

Meanwhile, it is not difficult to make it, you see (okay, that should really depends on how toilsome you think making dumplings is). All you need to do is spare the greens from the fillings and shower the dumplings with hot chili sauce (remember to add some sugar and Chinese prickly ash) before serving. So if the chili sauce is what get your juice flowing, try the Chung's next time you do dumplings...

反沙芋頭: Deep-fried sugared taro

反沙芋頭, or deep-fried sugared taro is a very famous Chiuchow (the southern part of China) fare for the sweet tooth. Overall, Chiuchow people is at the top of game when it comes to sweet in Chinese cuisine, head and shoulder above others when the subject is tong shui (糖水), or sweetened soup. It is absolutely mind-boggling to see a pan can turn out seemingly endless varieties of sweetened soup with all kinds of ingredient. 

As celebrated as the sugared taro is, you won't see it often in many Chiuchow eateries outside China because of the cost-profit reality. The recipe is easy but the timing is difficult to master; unlike other desserts, this one requires the full attention of the chef in the cooking. At best, the dried sugar syrup should embrace the taro like a casing after the stir-fry, that's how the name came: fan sa, the sa, or sugar, is on the outside of the food rather than inside. The same can apply to the deep-fried sugared lily bud (反沙蓮子) and the deep-fried sugared mandarin (反沙桔子).

Ingredients:
Taro 750g
White sugar 400g
Water little

Direction:
Peel the taro. Trim the ends and sides of taro to make a rectangular block, then slice about 2 or 3 cm thick. Stack the slices and cut into sticks 2 cm wide (just a tad bigger than that of the pommes Pont Neuf).
Deep-fried with pre-heated oil to golden in color; make sure it is well-done.
Remove the taro and the oil from the wok.
Add white sugar and a little water.  Cook the syrup slowly until the surface of the liquid bubbles. Add the fried taro.
Here comes the tricky part: remove the wok from the fire immediately. Switch on a fan in full gear and stir the taro in the liquid in the wind. Which way the wind blow does matter in this case: blow to the taro so the syrup can solidify during the stir-frying.

Now, this IS what I call Music in the Kitchen

All readers reading this blog, I assume, knows very well how tunes in the restaurant affect our dining mood. Granted, the music is not the intergal part of the dining package: we don't think of it chiefly, nor secondly or thirdly when we eat out. And savvy dinners know all too well the bottom line is the food. Period.

Yet at some points, we have to admit that a good rhythm does get us into the swing, right? After all, we want good music when we eat. It is part of the senses we can't deny. Choose well, it match perfectly (or better still, spawn) the ambience desired; choose bad, it is a lethal mood killer...

However, it is interesting to see this music-food tango only applys to most of us but not all. A woman called Elizabeth Sulston featured in the latest Nature magazine certainly think otherwise. Gifted with an ability neuroscientists called synaesthesia, a condition in which the brain can links two or more senses together, Sulston can taste the difference in music intervals with her tongue. For example, a minor third tasted salty to her whereas a minor sixth tasted like cream. In case you'd like to have a peek, the full length version of her tasting menu is listed here.

Now, I wonder, can we find Ms. Sulston any tone free of minor third when she eats, say, a dessert buffet? Anyway, if all failed, just play her Prokofiev's Peter and Wolf or Saint-Saens' Carnival of Animals then. That's the best game we ordinary people can offer/associate...