Xiyun Yang
Fire Up the Grill
That was one really, really long winter. The snowstorms, the freezing cold, the layers upon layers of movement-hindering long underwear. Now, finally, summer is here. Break out the barbecues and the swimsuits, please. And why not try for the perfect barbecue? I'm not talking about what usually happens, when you're rushing in and out of the kitchen, your hair half-done, the potatoes half-cooked for the salad, and the meat half-marinated. No. I'm talking about the fantasy kind where your guests arrive, you greet them, cold drink in hand, with hair so perfect a 1950s housewife would be impressed. A spread of salads and cold dishes are already laid out, and a platter of gourmet marinated meats is ready for grilling.
Fish with Grilled Scallions
I am not a squeamish cook, nor am I timid. I scrape marrow and I render fat, but we all have our kryptonite. Mine is cooking fish. Its offensive characteristics include: the fishy smell it leaves in my kitchen, its finicky disposition to being over cooked, the diligence needed to check for impeccable freshness. And don't even get me started on browning butter on a weeknight. Eating and cooking fish while living in a coastal city is another story all on its own; anyone would find it easy to wax lyrical about Peruvian ceviche in Peru, where it's actually a hassle to find unfresh fish. In a landlocked place like Beijing, fresh fish is an ordeal.
Party Food
When I was young, I went to quite a few Chinese parties in Los Angeles. They began slowly, very slowly. Though I am
unfortunately contributing to a stereotype, this one happens to be true: a Chinese party is a little geeky. There's a lot of awkward drink holding. Only when everyone has sat down to the homemade banquet does the liquor start flowing and things really kick off. As a people, we're not big partiers - we're big eaters. But Chinese people are not big fans of finger foods. This is unfortunate because Chinese food lends itself to being reimagined on the end of
toothpicks. Naturally bite-sized and sauce based, many Chinese staples can be easily consumed with a cocktail glass in the other hand.
Sophisticated Sauces: Sichuan-inspired pasta
On a recent trip to Chongqing, I had one of the best bowls of noodles I've had in my life. The restaurant, if it could be called that, was across the street from the White House nightclub - a place once notorious for its mobsters and their hangers-on. It was, as most winter days are in Chongqing, a foggy one. And cold. And rainy. The clouds descended about the city and soaked everything in a weighted dampness. The noodle joint was the size of three closets, and at the entrance sat a table full of bowls: soy sauce, garlic, ginger, green onions, sesame oil, vinegar, chilli oil, pork fat, salt, sugar, MSG, pepper and ground Sichuan pepper, as well as pots of rich, heavenly smelling meat sauce and chunks of beef. A cauldron bubbled away on the stove,
beckoning as steam rose up in magical
puffs every time someone opened its lid.
Sweet Tart: The Incredible Haw Fruit
One of my favorite things about Beijing winter happens the
moment the air turns the slightest bit nippy: ruby jewels
appear, strung on branches and hitched to the back of bicycles. It’s bingtang hulu (haw fruit) season. The tart, hard little fruits of the hawthorn tree are seeded (when the vendor isn’t lazy), skewered on kebab sticks, dipped in caramel, and cooled until the sugar forms a sugary, crispy skin. Biting into the fruit brings the deeply satisfying extremes of sweetened tartness, like fresh lemonade. Haw, the name of the actual fruit, is native to the north of China, so even 20 years ago, when oranges were considered luxuries, haw was everywhere. Nowadays when a vendor rides around on his bicycle with a tree of candied fruits behind him like the tail feathers of a proud rooster, they’ll have more exotic fruits on display: strawberries, oranges, and even dragon fruit. I’m not big on all this peacocking. Nothing will trump the traditional candied haw in my heart.
So when I recently thought about revamping holiday dinners, I naturally turned to the ubiquitous haw. You can find these quintessential winter fruits everywhere after mid-October, assembled in giant piles on street corners, being sold by the farmers themselves. The extreme tartness and color lend obvious parallels to cranberries, and for all those North Americans who desperately miss their continent’s addition to the holiday table, I thought a savory walnut, orange and haw relish would work so much better on a turkey than a cylinder of jellied red goo shipped over from its indigenous land. It’s also delicious in sandwiches made with store-bought turkey.
A Hearty Fall Salad
I don’t know about you, but I am a total sucker for those “Melt away the fat!” and “Eat your way to a flat belly!” headlines on the cover of women's magazines. With a hopeful heart and a serious suspension of disbelief, I flip to the corresponding pages, almost believing that my pants will feel looser upon hitting that magic article.
And you know what I find every single time, without fail?
Grilled chicken. That’s the secret to everything. Grilled. Chicken. Sometimes accompanied by steamed broccoli, sometimes carrot slices, always bland looking – there’s not even an optimistic mustard pot in the picture. True – grilled chicken is the most easily identifiable, controlled protein you can get your hands on, but the chicken that appears in these diets is the stuff of science, not food. It’s all about calorie counting, and treats the joy of eating like an invading army that needs to be battled.
Pack It Up: A Chinese take on the lunch box
I always thought that the best thing about September was the return of the lunchbox. There was something mysterious and gratifying about a lunch served in a box. When we moved to the States, there were a few disastrous attempts to pack rice and stir-fried tomato and egg for lunch. Students didn’t have access to microwaves in large school cafeterias, and no one took kindly to my weird, non-bologna sandwich lunch. As a matter of survival, I stood in line with everyone else and bought rubbery pizza instead. Sometimes, though, when my grandmother made some of her great slow-stewed beef (jiangniurou), I would take a few slices, put it in between some unearthly pale Wonder Bread, and bring it to school. My sandwich looked like everyone else’s, but I knew better. I enjoyed that subversive thrill.
Freeze Out Summer
When I was in grade school, I didn’t have much respite from the steaming, cicada-filled Beijing summers other than bamboo sleeping mats, my grandmother’s languid afternoon fanning, and her softly repeated mantra: Xinjing ziran liang. “When your heart quiets down,” coolness (apparently) naturally follows. Yeah, I never really got that either, but since air conditioning was still a rarity and the fan was considered a waste of electricity, my options were limited.
