Feel better soup from Shanghai

If I were asked to think of another country where something sweet was considered therapeutic, I’d be hard pressed to come up with an answer. But China does this on a regular basis. Case in point: this marvelous concoction.

In many ways, this is very similar to a regular old fermented rice soup. Shanghai, though, manages to ratchet the flavors and textures and colors up a whole lot, creating something that is quite unique all the way around. Corn is in there to round out the nutrition and add wonderful bits for the teeth to play with, and wolfberries add a dash of scarlet and light sourness to the mix. Did I happen to mention that this is delicious, too?

Chinese moms whip up soups like this whenever someone doesn’t feel well, has had a baby, or is otherwise miserable. One reason for this is that the fermented rice gets the circulation going, which warms up the toes and makes life seem just a tad more livable. Second is that it just tastes so darned good. And third is, it’s a snap to pull together.

Shave off the kernels

Fermented rice, wolfberry, and corn soup

Gŏuqĭ jīróng yùmĭ gēng  枸杞雞蓉玉米羹

Serves 8

¼ cup / 30g wolfberries

Boiling water, as needed

2 ears fresh corn, or around 1½ cups / 300g frozen tender corn kernels

2 cups / 450ml fermented rice, both solids and liquid

Rock sugar, to taste

1 tablespoon cornstarch dissolved in 2 tablespoons cool water

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1. Rinse the wolfberries, place them in a small heatproof bowl, and cover with boiling water while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

2. Cut the corn off of the cobs and use your knife to scrape off any pulp and juice. Or, measure out the frozen corn.

Totally luscious

3. About 10 minutes before you serve this, bring 3 cups of water to a full boil in a medium saucepan. Add the wolfberries, their soaking liquid, and the corn. Allow the soup to come to a boil again, and then use a whisk to stir in the fermented rice so that it breaks apart into grains. Add about 1 tablespoon rock sugar, or to taste. When it comes to a boil the third time, stir in the cornstarch mixture until the soup has thickened.

4. Remove the pan from the heat and drizzle the eggs on top in a thin ribbon, back and forth. Wait for about a minute, and then gently stir to make the eggs form gentle wisps. Serve immediately.

Tips

This can be made ahead of time up through Step 3. But don’t add the eggs until the last minute, as you want them to be silky and soft. Reheating the soup just turns them leathery.

Consider this for breakfast, too

The secret to these velvety eggs is the way in which they are poached: the pan is taken off the heat, the eggs are dribbled across the top (never poured into the pan in a vast puddle), and then they are left alone to set up. This way they won’t turn into nasty little tough threads. Instead, they will be sensuous and calming. A simple trick, but incredibly useful.

If you don't want to serve this all at once, reserve half (or so) of the soup after you’ve finished with Step 3 and add the eggs to whatever you’re eating at the time.

January soup for the stomach and the soul

Hubei is so speckled with still bodies of water that it is known as "the land of fish and rice." And the name is apt, for fishing is a major part of Hubei culture and fish is featured at almost every meal. But another important resource is harvested in those ponds, as well: lotuses.

Pink lotus blossoms cover the lakes and ponds of Hubei in high summer. Their leaves are gathered around this time and used as scented wrappers for pork and chicken or desserts. Also harvested are the heavy green pods filled with ivory seeds that can be found inside the flowers. These pods are soft and delicate when fresh and starchy when dried. The greatest harvest of all, though, happens after the leaves have died and the cold winds send the plants into hibernation. This is when the long, white rhizomes are dug up.

Harvesting these rhizomes is backbreaking work. The roots are hidden under many feet of thick cold, gray mud, and the workers have to gently feel around with their feet for the roots, and then pull them out without breaking them. The most prized rhizomes are the fat, long, juicy specimens that taste just like a meaty vegetable. They are delicious in this hearty soup, which is best served in late autumn or winter, the peak of the lotus root season.

Lotus, Chinese yam, & wolfberries

So, only go shopping for lotus roots when it's cold out, as that is when these will be fresh and juicy. Look for fat rhizomes 2 to 3 inches wide with as little bruising as possible. They should feel heavy, which tells you that they were harvested recently. Chinese markets will often sell these in long, unbroken lengths of three or four rhizomes, and if I see them proudly displayed that way, I can never resist, because this shows real pride in their produce.

Feel the roots all over for signs of squishiness, which signifies rot. You want these rock hard, and if you gently rap on them with your knuckles, you should be rewarded with a satisfying thump. Store them in plastic bags in the fridge with a paper towel if they are at all wet, and that will help preserve their quality. Remove the skins with a potato peeler, pare off the hard nubbins on both ends, and then clean out the long holes, using a chopstick to dislodge any dirt. However, if you did your job well and selected prime lotus roots, you probably won't find any mud squirreled away in there. 

Get plump specimens for the pot

In this version I’ve added another cold weather favorite, Chinese yams, or shānyào 山藥. These are weirdly wonderful vegetables that are delicious raw, when they are crisp and sweet. They're also great cooked, which turns them soft and more vegetal. The Chinese revere them as highly nutritious any way they are prepared, and they are touted as having anti-inflammatory properties, good for the skin, and so forth. They’re low in starch and sugar, too, which makes them great for folks on diets.

Me, I just like them, and so into the pot they go.


Lotus root, Chinese yam and pork rib soup
Lián’ŏu shānyào páigŭ tāng  蓮藕山藥排骨湯
Hubei
Serves 4 to 6 generously

About 1 pound pork back ribs or pork neck 
2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil
2 inches fresh ginger
3 or 4 green onions, trimmed
2 quarts boiling water, plus more as needed
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons Shaoxing rice wine, divided
Sea salt to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon sugar
1 hefty lotus root (around one pound, about 6 x 3 inches)
1 (one pound or so, about 6 x 2 inches) Chinese yam
¼ cup wolfberries (aka gouqi or goji berries), optional

Fry the riblets

1. Start this recipe at least a day before you want to serve it. Have your butcher slice the ribs or neck into 1-inch pieces. Pat the meat dry. Heat the oil in a wok over medium-high until it starts to smoke, and use tongs to lower the meat into the hot fat. Brown the meat on all sides and then remove them to a large (4 quart or so) sandpot or stockpot.

2. Brown the ginger in the wok and then add it to the pork. Add the green onions (leave them whole) and cover the ribs with the boiling water. Pour in ¼ cup rice wine before bringing the pot to a full boil. Lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook the pork uncovered for around an hour, or until the meat is tender. Let the pot come to room temperature, and then keep it in a cool place overnight.

Simmer the soup for 30 minutes

3. The next day, skim off the fat, if you like, and discard the limp cooked onions. Add more boiling water to the pot to bring it up to its original volume, heat the soup to a boil, add the salt, pepper, and sugar, and adjust the seasoning as desired.

4. Peel the lotus root and roll cut (see Tip) it into pieces about an inch wide. If you see any mud at all inside there, wash it off carefully. Peel the Chinese yam and cut it into pieces about the same size as the lotus root chunks. Add the lotus root, Chinese yam, and optional wolfberries to the soup, and bring it to a boil again before lowering the heat to a simmer. Cook the lotus roots until tender, about half an hour. Stir in the 2 tablespoons rice wine and a bit more boiling water, if desired. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Portion out the soup into large individual bowls and serve hot.

Tip 

Hard vegetables like carrots and lotus roots are often roll-cut, which gives them a nice range of textures in one bite: soft along the edges, but firm in the center. To do this, hold one end of the vegetable firmly against your cutting board and use this same hand to rotate it as you slice it on an angle with the other hand. What you are aiming for here are slightly triangular wedges. There's no need for accuracy, so just practice away until you get the hang of it. 
  

What you need to know about fresh wolfberries, aka goji or gouqi berries

Wolfberries are the subject of today's post. Fresh ones. I'm probably way ahead of the curve here, as outside of my few secret sources, I've only seen them on our shores dried, when they are uniformly referred to as "goji berries."

However, goji is their Japanese name, and since they are actually grown in China, it seems only fair that they should be more properly referred to as gǒuqǐ 枸杞. Raised mainly in the desert province of Ningxia Hui up near Mongolia and out in Xinjiang near the western borderlands with Central Asia, gouqi are regarded as veritable elixirs of good health in Chinese medicine and are often combined with other herbal ingredients to provide a touch of sweetness and flavor to the mix. 

Extravagantly decorated waffle

But as good as those dried ones are, nothing beats a fresh wolfberry. These look and taste completely different from their dried compatriots - sort of the way in which a fresh, juicy grape seems totally unrelated to a raisin. A very thin skin covers a pulpy fruit filled with a spatter of really tiny seeds. Think of a Roma tomato reduced to the size of pine nut. And that makes a whole lot of sense, as like the tomato this is a member of the nightshade family. But unlike a tomato, these are deliciously sweet with a flavor unlike any other fruit I've ever tried. Lightly fragrant, they pop in your mouth and release all their juices with the gentlest pressure.

Chiaying & her berries

My friend Chiaying Fong was celebrating her bumper crop the other day and gave me a lovely basketful of these transient fall treasures. I was stunned at her generosity and happily accepted this amazing gift. They found their way onto morning waffles with just some butter nestled underneath them, and the results were astoundingly good.

So, what to do until that fine day when we can at the very least hunt them down in a farmer's market? 

Well, they are easy to grow if you live in a relatively dry area and if you can get ahold of cuttings from a friend. (Yet another great reason to have lots of Chinese friends, as if you needed another excuse.)

Chiaying's hubby hard at work

I did just that a couple of years ago and now have some lovely berries of my own growing on the big, leafy bushes that go well with just about any planting scheme. The berries hang down from the arching stems like little rubies, and they are ready when they turn bright scarlet.

To make your very own gouqi plantation, just strip the leaves off of the base of some 2-inch stems with a few leaves left growing on the top, stick them into some rooting medium like Perlite or a loose potting soil, keep them watered, and soon you'll have a whole bunch of these fabulous plants. If you have the patience, you can also try growing them from seed - I'd suggest soaking a couple of the little fruits in warm water (preferably organic and nicely soft, so that they are of the best quality) until plump, and then you can carefully squeeze or scoop out the seedy pulp. You might even want to chill the dried seeds for a couple of months in the refrigerator to help fool them into thinking that winter has come and gone, and then sow them in light potting soil once the weather warms.

Gouqi in my yard

Little purple blossoms of Lycium barbarum cover the branches before they set fruit, so there's this gorgeous progression of colors. The thin leaves drop off in winter, which is an excellent time to trim them up a bit so that they bush out with abandon in spring. Pot up the trimmings and make more plants and friends that way - at least, that's my suggestion.

Do note that there is another type of wolfberry that you can get in Chinese grocery stores from summer up until frost: One with a wider leaf that is grown mainly for its tender leaves (gǒuqǐyè 枸杞葉, or Lycium chinense), although I've heard that its fruits can be just as good as L. barbarum. Of course, there's absolutely nothing stopping you from rooting these stems, and nothing gets wasted that way, either.

Stem as needed, rinse, & eat

These are leaves are really easy to use: just strip the leaves off of the stems, soak them in ice water for an hour or so to freshen them up and remove some of the bitterness, and then use in stir-fries or soups like any other leafy vegetable, where they should be added at the last minute to preserve their color and texture. 

To prepare fresh wolfberries, simply pull off any stems still sticking into the fruit, rinse in a colander, and shake dry. If you plan to hold the little fruits for a day or two in the fridge, then store them dry in a plastic bag, as water will make them rot faster. 

Wolfberries can be used much like any other fragile, ripe berry, but keep in mind that they are not as sharply sweet as, say, raspberries or blackberries, nor as highly flavorful as tomatoes. That - and their tiny seeds - is why they never appear in pies or get turned into sauces. Instead, the traditional Chinese way of cooking them is limited to adding the ripe fruits to austere stir-fries, especially things like celery, lily bulbs, and wolfberry leaves, where they won't be overwhelmed by other flavors and textures.

Berries arrayed on the stems

That being said, 99% of the time you are only going to be able to get your hands on the dried berries. But keep your eyes out for Chinese friends with prolific wolfberry patches growing in their back yards. Ask for a taste of those fresh gouqi fruits and then get a couple of cuttings. Growing impossible-to-find produce is one of the best reasons to have a yard, in my personal opinion!

Alas, until you have your own stellar crop waiting for you on the counter, you'll have to settle for dried berries, which really are quite tasty, of course. Here's a good way to turn those dried fruits into a tonic that is fabulous either hot or cold.

Wolfberry and chrysanthemum tea

Júhuā gǒuqǐ chá 菊花枸杞茶

All over China

Makes 1 pot

2 tablespoons dried wolfberries

3 to 4 tablespoons Hangzhou dried chrysanthemums (see next week's post)

Boiling water, as needed

Honey to taste, optional

Your ingredients

1. Place the wolfberries and chrysanthemums in a fine sieve and rinse them with some boiling water to remove any dust. Place the doused ingredients into a teapot.

2. Fill the pot with water that has come to a full boil and then rested for about 5 minutes, which will reduce the temperature a bit and so help preserve the flavors. Cover the pot and let the two ingredients seep for another 5 minutes or so, until the berries and flowers are plump. Add honey to taste, if you like. You can add water to the pot probably one more time before the flavor peters out.

Do note that you can adjust the ratios of the berries and blossoms here as you like. Or, just leave out one or the other. It will taste good no matter what you do.

Dining on lily bulbs Buddhist style

Of all the many dishes we ate in lovely Lanzhou in Gansu province – right at the headwaters of the Yellow River – this was the most memorable. Just before we set sail to visit a Buddhist shrine upriver, we ate at a Buddhist restaurant. Everything was vegetarian, of course, but even more importantly everything was 素 sù, the Chinese word for super-strict vegetarian that includes no garlic or chilies or onions or ginger or anything else that could be considered an addictive flavor.

Now, I am a proud chilihead, and I don’t get that shaky when deprived of my peppers, as long as it’s not more than a day or two. Really, I’m fine. And yet, could see how someone striving for Nirvana would want to put any earthly desires to one side, including all of the aromatics I reach for automatically whenever I’m cooking.

Be that as it may, dishes that highlight only the natural flavors of a few ingredients can sometimes be magical. Take this one, for example. It is simple in every way and yet quite beautiful, the bright red berries shining against the ivory petals of the lily bulbs. They glisten with only a bare sheen of oil, and a subtle shake of salt provides the barest whisper of savoriness against the delicate sour and sweet notes.

The bulbs all cleaned up & snowy

The most difficult ingredient to find here are the lily bulbs. They come into season only in late fall and are imported from Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu province. Yes, they are available dried, but don’t even think about using them here because dried bulbs are starchy and flat-tasting. 

If you see the fresh ones in a Chinese market any time of the year, snap as many of them up as you can. Then, use half for this dish and plant the other half… they grow easily in almost any temperate climate, and soon you will be able to revel in them whenever you choose.

Lily bulbs and wolfberries 
Bǎihé chǎo gōuqĭ 百合炒枸杞 

Gansu
Serves 4 to 6 

¼ cup organic dried wolfberries (gouqi or goji, see Tips)

Boiling water as needed

4 fresh Lanzhou lily bulbs, about 10 to 12 ounces total (see Tips)

1 tablespoon fresh peanut or vegetable oil

½ teaspoon sea salt, or to taste

1. Place the wolfberries in a medium heatproof bowl and cover them with boiling water. Let the berries plump up while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

The good, bad, & ugly

2. Prepare the lily bulbs by first using a paring knife to trim off any roots or discolored areas. Working on one bulb at a time, hold it over a colander and gently peel off the “petals” of the lily bulb until you cannot peel off any more; cut the center in half or quarters. Repeat with the other bulbs until they are all separated into petals. Rinse the petals under cool running water and lightly toss them over the sink to remove most of the water. Pick over the petals and nip off any discolored bits.

3. Drain the wolfberries, straining out the liquid into a measuring cup, and if you have less than ¼ cup of the soaking liquid, add just enough water to reach that mark.

4. Heat the oil in a wok over high heat and add the salt. Swirl the wok around to melt the salt and then add the wolfberries, the soaking liquid, and the lily bulb petals. Quickly stir-fry them over high heat only until the liquid boils. Taste one of the petals: it should be cooked and sweet but still crisp. Serve hot or warm.

Tips

Do not use any other variety of lily bulb for this dish other than those that come from Lanzhou lilies, as not all lilies are edible. The Latin name for the Lanzhou lily is Lilium davidii, and they look very much like tiger lilies when in bloom.

Select the most perfect ones you can

Most of these lily bulbs will be sold in small plastic bags, as shown to the right. Look at them carefully through the tiny window and select only those that are pure white; less pretty ones will be jammed into the back of the bag out of sight, of course, but do the best you can. I always buy more than I need, as noted above in the headnotes, both to compensate for the inevitable bad bulb or two, and also to have more to plant.

Dried lily bulb petals are also sold in Chinese markets, but please do not use them here! They turn starchy and tasteless when they are dried, which is fine for slow-cooked things, but here the crunch and the sweetness of the fresh bulbs are absolutely essential.

Wolfberries are called gouqi in Chinese and goji in Japanese. Use caution when purchasing them from Chinese markets, as some are dyed red or have been subjected to heavy pesticides or pollution.

I prefer to get my gouqi from either a good Chinese herbalist or from reputable health food stores. Organic wolfberries are becoming increasingly available, too.

Select berries that are plump, the color of ripe persimmons, and as large as possible. Check for insect infestation by shaking the bag around, and discard any that show holes or that have dark, round dust (= insect poop) at the bottom. Store them in a freezer bag in the freezer if you are not using them within a month or two, as this will keep them fresh.

The case of the Chinese gooseberry

From the name most commonly associated with these little Wookie lookalikes -- the kiwi fruit -- you would think that they originally came from New Zealand. 

However, long before this adopted name, they were called Chinese gooseberries, because their homeland is in the tropical reaches of southern China. 

In their native land, they are the national fruit, which is really saying something, as so many of the world's citrus varieties, as well as apricots, peaches, loquats, pears, walnuts, and my beloved lychees, hail from ancient China. 

Scoop out the flesh with a spoon

You'd never know that from its Chinese name, though. In Taiwan, where the kiwi has become pretty popular, the fruit's name is nothing more than a transliteration of "kiwi": qiyiguo, which literally means strange or bizarre fruit. I think that the little fuzzballs have managed to overcome this poor marketing ploy quite admirably, and a lot of that has to do with their beautiful jade-hued flesh, a color that is very striking in a fruit bowl or as a garnish.

But like a gorgeous model who also can talk eloquently on The Brothers Karamazov, this fruit's long term appeal lies beneath the surface. They taste like a cross between, yes, a gooseberry and a peach. I personally like the tart layer in its flavor, as it sets off the perfume and luscious sweetness, keeping them from being at all cloying.

And then there are the seeds. Forming a stunning ebony ring around the white, edible center, they are delicately crunchy without drawing too much attention to themselves. They  perfectly set off the little rays of lighter flesh that intersect the darker green like a starburst. 

Pull off the tough ends with the skin

How do you eat them, then? My favorite way is to cut them across at the equator and run a thin metal spoon between the flesh and the skin. This results in the least waste, and is quite a fast way to deal with them. Both the stem and blossom ends are easily pulled off if the fruit is perfectly ripe (see Tips), but can be dug out if the fruit is still slightly underripe. After that, you can slice or dice them, eat them as they are, or add them to desserts.

Do be aware that kiwis possess high levels of enzymes that curdle milk and tenderize meat, and they might cause a reaction in folks who are allergic to pineapples, papayas, and latex. Like pineapples, you can't add raw kiwis to gelatin-based desserts, as it inhibits any gelling.

Aside from enjoying them freshly released from their little hair suits, I like them tossed with a couple of Chinese favorites that don't get enough attention in the West: lacy white "snow ear" fungus and wolfberries (also called goji or gouqi berries), both of which were recently introduced in a recipe for Sweet Stuffed Asian Pears, among other places here. 

Plumped up snow ear

Wolfberries are lovely in and of themselves, and I toss them with considerable abandon into anything -- sweet or savory -- that could benefit from their deep red color and tartly raisin-like taste. They, like the kiwis, are very high in vitamins, making them both healthy and delicious. The other main component, the snow ear fungus, is there mainly for texture. It lightens the fruits and carries the flavors of the gentle sauce in between each morsel. 

This is yet another example of the Chinese concept of balance. Red against green, raw with cooked, tart with sweet, spicy against fruity... and yet they all form a harmonious whole.

Good for the end of a family meal or even for company, this is easy and inexpensive and just right for this time of the year when we're still waiting for the first fruits of summer to show up.


Kiwi, wolfberry and snow ear compote 
Tangzhu qiyiguo gouqi xue'er   糖煮奇異果枸杞雪耳 
All over China
Serves 4 to 6 as a dessert, 2 to 3 as a snack

1 large dried "snow ear" fungus
Boiling water, as needed
2 cups filtered water
1 walnut-sized piece of rock sugar, or honey or other sweetener to taste
½ teaspoon sea salt
3 thin slices fresh ginger

Chinese wolfberries

½ cup Chinese wolfberries (see Tips)
5 ripe kiwi fruits

1. Place the snow ear fungus in a heatproof work bowl and cover it with boiling water. When it has plumped up, use scissors or a paring knife to trim off any hard or brownish areas. Separate it into "petals," rinse to remove any debris, and dry in colander. 

2. Pour the 2 cups water into a saucepan; add the sugar, salt, and ginger, and bring to a boil. Rinse the wolfberries and add them to the pan along with the snow ear fungus. Simmer these until the liquid has been reduced to about a half cup, at which time the fungus should be soft and supple, and the wolfberries plump and tender. Remove the pan from the stove and allow the compote to come to room temperature.

3. Peel the kiwi fruits and cut each one into large dice, about 16 pieces. Add the kiwi to the cooled compote, cover, and refrigerate until completely chilled. Serve in small bowls.

Add salt and sugar

Tips

The best and freshest wolfberries and snow ear fungus will be found in Chinese herbal or specialty dry goods shops. Look for plump specimens that have no sign of deterioration or bugs. Ask the shopkeeper for help, as the owner will usually be more than happy to help customers find the right things. If not, find another shop.

Kiwis usually are sold barely ripe and need a couple of days to fully ripen. I like mine when the skins start to barely shrivel, at which point you'll feel a gentle "give" in the fruit that tells you it has ripened enough to begin softening. 

You can speed this up by putting the kiwis in a paper bag with an apple, as the apple's ethylene gas will jump start the ripening action. And, if you don't want to use the ripened kiwis right away, place them in an air-tight container and refrigerate, as any other ripening produce in the fridge might stimulate further ripening and then, alas, rot.

Drunken chicken

Shanghainese food -- a particularly spectacular part of that lovely kaleidoscope of Chinese cuisine that centers in fabulous Jiangsu province at the mouth of the Yangtze River -- has been a love of mine ever since my boss at the museum plunked me down at a groaning banquet table in Taipei and said, "Eat."

He too was from East China, so he knew his way around a Shanghai-style restaurant like it was his own back yard, and we would all end up glassy-eyed and grinning after hours of slowly working our way through what must have been most of that chef's repertoire.

Almost every such banquet started out with something drunken. My favorite was always this Drunken Chicken, although one of my more annoying colleagues would often order things like raw drunken crabs mainly, I think, so that he'd have no competition from me.

Over the years I've tried again and again to perfect this enchanting way to start a meal, and I think I've finally succeeded. Most restaurants I ate at long ago in Taiwan made this dish out of the whole chicken, which meant that there would be lots of dry breast meat or too much undercooked thigh meat with bloody marrow.

This dish, though, really shines when just thigh meat is used, as it lends it an incomparable richness and juiciness. I then throw in a good handful of Chinese wolfberries (aka goji berries), which not only spark up the landscape with lots of color and sweetness, but also lend a nice gel and sheen to the sauce. Keep the skin and bones on during the steaming because you don't want to lose a drop of their flavor and texture.

Wolfberries on the chicken

As with so many of Jiangsu's best dishes, Shaoxing wine is the star of the seasonings here. You don't have to buy an expensive bottle, just whatever's on sale and tastes good. How do you tell if it's any good? Smell it... it should taste distinctly mushroomy, have a good sherry flavor, and give you a nice kick in the pants once it hits home. See the photo in the previous entry for a couple of brands that I often use when cooking. (My favorite comes in a square bottle from Taiwan and has the name TTL stamped on the red label.)

The final secret ingredient here is Vietnamese fish sauce, or nam pla. Not exactly traditional in this part of China, this Chaozhou-style seasoning provides a wonderfully funky undercurrent to the sauce that just doesn't arrive by any other avenue. This is very close to a traditional Chinese ingredient that's called "shrimp oil" (xiayou); the brand with the three blue crabs on it was once recommended to me by a good Vietnamese cook, and I've never looked back.

Serve this dish cold with any other appetizers you like. The picture at the top here shows it with steamed snow peas topped with a roasted sesame dressing. That way there's the boozy, funky, red and white chicken sitting next to the fresh, sweet, nutty peas. Who says you can't have it all?

Drunken chicken
Zui ji  醉雞

Jiangsu
Serves 4 to 6 as an appetizer

4 whole chicken thighs with skin on (organic and free range, of course)
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground roasted Sichuan peppercorns, optional but tasty
1 green onion, trimmed and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 small finger of ginger, thinly sliced
1/2 or so cup chicken stock
1/2 cup Shaoxing rice wine
2 tablespoons Vietnamese fish sauce (see note above)
3 tablespoons Chinese wolfberries (goji berries)
Boiling water as needed

1. Make this the day that you wish to serve it for the best texture; after a day or two in the wine, the chicken flesh will turn powdery. Rinse and pat dry the thighs. Rub the salt and optional Sichuan peppercorns into the skin and flesh of the thighs, add the green onion and ginger to the chicken,  and place everything in a bowl that fits easily in your steamer. Let the thighs marinate in a cool place for half an hour or so. 

2. Place the bowl in the steamer over high heat and steam until done, about 15 minutes. Check to see whether the meat is cooked through by piercing the thickest part of the thighs; the juices should run clear. Remove the bowl from the steamer. Strain and reserve any of the juices. 

Colorful contrasts all around

3. Measure the reserved juices and add enough chicken stock to make about 1 cup. Cut the bones out of the thighs and remove the skin if you want, although the skin will give the dish another layer of texture if you leave it on. Put the chicken in a Ziploc bag and pour in the juices and stock, as well as the rice wine and fish sauce. Place the wolfberries in a heatproof bowl and pour just enough boiling water over them to cover. As soon as they plump up, add the berries and their juice to the chicken, squoosh everything around, and refrigerate the chicken for a few hours and up to 8 hours before serving; longer than that and the chicken turns powdery in texture. When you think of it, shake the bag so that the chicken gets thoroughly saturated with the marinade.

4. To serve, remove the chicken from the marinade and slice into 1/2-inch wide pieces. Arrange these attractively on a plate and scatter the wolfberries over the top. Glaze the chicken with some of the reserved marinade.