Mango pudding for adults

Every decent dim sum teahouse tends to offer little bowls of mango pudding on the dessert menu, but I almost never order it. The problem is, the pale orange stuff generally referred to as “mango pudding” nowadays rarely turns out to be a celebration of one of Mother Nature’s all-time greatest hits. 

I mean, when made correctly this is little more than an inspired combination of dead-ripe mangoes and fresh light cream. So, what you should be reveling in at the end of a dim sum meal or Cantonese banquet should be nothing less than divine, and when you look at the ingredients you'll realize that by all rights mango pudding ought to be awfully hard to mess up. 

Part of the problem is that most restaurants expect to serve this to the kids or to people who just want something on the order of ice cream for dessert. And so, the mango pudding we all get served will be cold, it will be sweet, and it will most likely be made from some mix with canned mangoes added and maybe a maraschino cherry on top, if the place really is trying hard. But that doesn't come near to the required simple perfection of this dish, which will transport devotees like me into a state of shivering ecstasy.

No, for that I have to make a batch of mango pudding by myself. And I’m here to tell you how. And the good news is that it’s not at all that difficult a task, especially when you consider how much gratification is at stake, how short life is, and how few perfectly ripe mangoes we manage to enjoy in various iterations before we shuffle off this mortal coil.

A great mango pudding should be a cool and fragrant bath for the senses. When made correctly, this luscious dessert offers a delicious cosseting for the tongue in between pillowy cubes of fresh, fragrant mangoes.

This is, in short, heaven in a bowl.

A wrinkly ripe Ataulfo (aka Manila) mango

Like just about every other great dessert that I love, mango pudding was not designed with the kiddies in mind. Rather, this can and should be a dish of great sophistication, full of flavor, not too sweet, capable of surprise, and immensely satisfying, especially after a long and filling dinner.

The one really important thing you have to do if you want success is get ahold of some very tasty, perfectly ripe, and not at all fibrous mangoes.

Right now is a good time in the Bay Area for Ataulfo or Manila mangoes, which are very aromatic, creamy, and relatively small. But any good mango will do. Learn to discern the varieties that you like (my other go-to mangoes are Kent and Haden, but that’s not at all a complete list) and keep an eye out for them, because this dessert requires careful planning.

What you have to remember is that you almost never can get perfectly ripe mangoes in the market, as they bruise and squish so easily. Instead, hunt down delicious specimens that show great promise (I tend to lug home a whole case of the fruit in greedy anticipation of meals to come) and let them ripen away in the kitchen. When they start to smell fabulous and the skins are a bit wrinkled, give the stem end the very gentlest of squeezes to confirm that the mangoes are ready to be celebrated in style.

Mango pudding was probably descended from India’s mango phirni and was possibly introduced to Guangzhou (Canton) by the British, who had lots of fingers in a whole lot of colonial pies. Nevertheless, this has managed to become inarguably Chinese over the past hundred-plus years.

And yet, in spite of this illustrious history, I really couldn’t leave well enough alone, now, could I?

Diced mangoes

So, you get your half-and-half here instead of condensed or evaporated milk. You have a touch of sweetener instead of lots of sugar. You have way more mango in there than probably is legal in many states. And… I’ve slipped in some rum. You of course don’t need to include it if you’re serving this to children or other teetotalers. But it’s great with this little extra dash of fun.

By the way, this is a fantastic dessert to serve after a fancy dinner at home because it can be made well ahead of time. All you need to do is add the garnishes and serve.

Mango pudding chez Huang

Huángjiā māngguŏ bùdīng 黃家芒果布丁

Guangdong cuisine

Serves 4

Pudding:

1 packet | 6 g unflavored gelatin

¼ cup | 60 ml cool water

Around 1½ pounds | 750 g ripe mangoes, which would be about 3 Manilas or Ataulfos (see headnote)

1 cup | 240 ml half-and-half

¼ cup | 60 ml mango rum, passion fruit rum, or dark rum, or you may add agave syrup or sugar to taste

To serve:

¼ cup | 60 ml half-and-half

Mint sprigs

Easy but delicious

1. In a medium work bowl, sprinkle the gelatin over the cool water and let it soften while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

2. Peel and pit the mangoes. Puree enough of the mangoes in a blender or food processor to give you approximately 1½ cups | 360 ml. Cut the rest of the mangoes into small (½ inch | 1 cm) cubes.

3. Pour the half-and-half into a 1 quart | 1 liter heatproof measuring cup. Microwave the half-and-half for a minute, stir, and then microwave again in short bursts until the liquid is very hot but not boiling over. Stir the softened gelatin into the hot liquid and swish things around gently with a small whisk until the gelatin is dissolved. Then, stir in the mango puree and either the rum or the agave syrup.

4. Divide the pudding among 4 (1 cup | 240 ml) dessert bowls and chill for about an hour, by which time the pudding will have thickened a bit. Reserve a couple tablespoons of the cubed mango for garnish, if you wish, and then divide the rest among the bowls, stir very gently to mix in the fruit, and refrigerate the pudding for at least 2 more hours and up to 3 days. Serve chilled with a small puddle of half-and-half on top, as well as a couple of mango cubes and a small mint sprig stuck into the edge to snazz things up.

Casserole for the Vernal Equinox

As the seasons slowly change and we drift from cold weather to warm and from rain to sun, lots of comfort food goes to the top of my needs. Too much change is in the air, and I want something simple and delicious to keep me grounded This simple casserole fits my needs perfectly.

Even better, I can do the drudge work ahead of time here. As eggplants always seem to want to dissolve into sludge before I’m ready to eat them, I cut them up into pieces and either deep-fry or bake them within a day or two of bringing them home. Either way, I slice the eggplants lengthwise and then cut them crosswise into halfmoons. Then, if I’m in the mood to bake, I toss them with oil and roast them until they are brown. Otherwise, I deep-fry them in small batches to achieve a similar level of caramelization.

The other main component is the bean curd. You can use whatever kind you like. For this kind of dish, I tend to prefer regular doufu, since it’s firm enough to withstand the braising without crumbling, and yet it’s tender enough to form a link with the eggplant. Because the eggplant has been fried or baked, I don’t fry the doufu, as this provides more visual and textural contrast.

Gorgeous Asian eggplants

The last-minute assembly is a great reason to have this on your short list of cool weather dishes. All you really need to do is toss everything together and bring it to a boil. If you simmer the casserole for a short time, the eggplant will stay chunky, which is nice. Or, you can simmer it slowly for an hour or so, by which point the doufu will turn spongy and the eggplant will break down into a silky sauce. And that is incredibly sexy. 

Eggplant and bean curd casserole

Qiézĭ dòufŭ bào 茄子豆腐煲

Cantonese cuisine

Serves 4

2 pounds (or so) Asian eggplant (aubergines)

Peanut or vegetable oil, as needed

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

3 tablespoons minced ginger

½ cup | 125 ml mild rice wine (Taiwan Mijiu)

Half-moons

¼ cup | 60 ml oyster sauce or vegetarian oyster sauce

1 teaspoon sugar

Water, as needed

14 ounces | 400 g regular bean curd

3 or 4 scallions, green parts only, coarsely chopped

1. Cut off the stem ends of the eggplant and then slice the eggplants lengthwise in half. Cut the eggplants crosswise into halfmoons about ¾ inch | 2 cm wide. If you want to roast the eggplant, toss the slices in some oil, place them in one layer on a rimmed pan, and bake them at 375ºF | 190 ºC. Toss them every 15 minutes or so, and remove when they are caramelized all over. To deep-fry them, put about 1 inch | 2.5 cm oil in a wok or frying pan and set over medium heat. When the oil starts to shimmer, fry the eggplant in small handfuls until caramelized. The eggplant can be prepared ahead of time and refrigerated.

Delicious!

2. Pour the sesame oil into a sandpot or saucepan and set it over medium heat. Add the garlic and ginger, and then stir until the fragrance is released. Add the eggplant, rice wine, oyster sauce, and sugar. Cut the bean curd into 3 equal slices, and then cut each slice into 4 triangles. Add the bean curd to the eggplant and pour in enough water to almost cover everything. 

3. Bring the liquid to a full boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to very low and simmer at least until the bean curd is heated through, about 20 minutes. Or, you can simmer it until the eggplant breaks down and the sauce is reduced to a thick syrup. Either way, keep an eye on the liquid so that the pan doesn’t boil dry and burn.

4. Just before serving, taste and adjust the seasoning. Toss in the scallions and heat for a minute or two to barely wilt them. Serve immediately with hot steamed rice.

My favorite Cantonese deli side dish

This is a classic side dish in Cantonese delis, the sort of thing that supplies a bit of veg to your plate of rice and, say, char siu or poached chicken. 

In and of itself, blanched lettuce with oyster sauce is absolutely delicious, but it’s even better when sidled up to something super flavorful and meaty like that.

If you’ve never had cooked lettuce, you are in for a delightful surprise. Only the Chinese could look at a big head of iceberg and transform it into something so perfectly delectable. 

A quick blanch rids the lettuce of its slightly bitter and boring edge—and the emphasis here is on quick, because you really do not EVER want to eat soggy lettuce, cooked or otherwise.

The brilliant part here is the sauce, and it’s usually what most people get wrong. You never stir-fry the lettuce with the sauce, as that leads to sogginess (see above). 

Cook like a deli chef!

Instead, you whip yourself up a simple warm salad dressing. 

Really, that’s all this sauce is. But it’s so utterly silky thanks to that undercurrent of the sea and garlic and slick of oil that it will reshape your thoughts on salad dressing. 

Blanched lettuce with oyster sauce

Háoyóu shēngcài  蠔油生菜

Guangdong cuisine

Serves 4 as a side

Lettuce:

1 head iceberg (or other crispy) lettuce, about 1 pound | 500 g

1 teaspoon sea salt

1 teaspoon peanut or vegetable oil

1 quart | 1 liter boiling water

Sauce:

2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil

1 clove garlic, finely minced

2 tablespoons oyster sauce (Lee Kum Kee is the best)

1 teaspoon sugar

Rip the thing apart

1 teaspoon regular soy sauce

1. Rinse the lettuce, remove the core, and tear the head into pieces about 2 inches | 5 cm long—in other words, bite-sized. Ripping the leaves apart makes them crispier, and also gives them a whole lot more visual appeal. Plus, it feels good to just vent on a head of lettuce.

2. Have a colander set in the sink and a low serving bowl or rimmed serving dish ready. Add the salt and oil to the boiling water, and then stir in the lettuce. Blanch the lettuce for mere seconds—as soon as you see bright green, the lettuce is done. It should still be very crispy, but will have lost its raw edge. Dump the lettuce and water into the colander and let the lettuce drain thoroughly while you prepare the sauce.

3. Set a wok or frying pan over low heat and add the oil and garlic. Let the garlic sputter in the oil for a few minutes, since you want it to release its flavor without browning. When the garlic is translucent, stir in the oyster sauce, sugar, and soy sauce. Keep stirring this over low heat until the sauce bubbles and comes together. Immediately remove from the heat and add the drained lettuce. Toss quickly and serve. 

Here's what you want for the sauce

Notes:

Romaine lettuce also works just fine here.

As the lettuce sits, it will begin to dump lots of liquid into the bowl, for its cells are collapsing. That’s totally fine. You can pour off the liquid, if you like, as the sticky sauce will have coated the leaves very well by then.

If you want to go meatless, use vegetarian oyster sauce. Again, Lee Kum Kee’s version is the best.

Rev up for Chinese New Year!

The Year of the Pig is almost upon us. February 5th is the first day of the lunar new year, which means it's time to get some holiday food ready. 

Radish cakes are always at the top of my list. 

The English name is, admittedly, lousy. Chinese radishes are nothing like our little red jobs... this vegetable is big and juicy and white. 

Some people call them turnips, but don't let them fool you. These taste like radishes, but without the heat. 

Crispy exterior, creamy insides

Chinese and Korean radishes (luóbō) are best here, but daikon will do in a pinch. The main thing is that the tubers are fresh and sweet and heavy. Asian radishes are at their best in cold weather, so now is the time to buy them.

Be forewarned: radish cakes don't look or taste like cakes. Luóbō gāo is a savory steamed pudding, if I'm going to get all persnickety on you, and the interiors of these slabs turn fabulously creamy when the exterior is fried to a crisp. 

Most restaurants serve this as semi-cold slabs that have been sautéed on two sides. However, radish cakes  can be oh so much more delicious, for the perfect luóbō gāo is served as crunchy slices or nuggets. A nicely browned crust on every side serves to (barely) control the chaos inside: a molten rice lava spangled with bits of Chinese cured meats and mushrooms.

Juicy Korean radishes

A gentle taste of radishes hover in the background, with gravelly bits of sausage and mushroom spiking each bite. My recipe goes a bit wild with all the savory bits, but trust me, you want it this way!

The preparation takes a bit of time to explain, but you'll see down below that it is actually quite easy to put together. That being said, this is a bit of a time suck, so feel free to prep bits and pieces over a couple of days. You can also freeze the cooked puddings. Just defrost them thoroughly (overnight in the refrigerator is best) before slicing and frying.

Radish cakes

Luóbō gāo 蘿蔔糕

Guangdong cuisine

Makes 2 large loaves, serves 12 or more

Cut up some radish batons

Cakes:

¼ cup | 30 g dried shrimp

Boiling water

About 4 pounds | 2.5 kg very fresh Chinese or Korean radishes, or daikon

12 black Chinese mushrooms, soaked until plump

6-inch | 15-cm strip of Cantonese-style cured pork belly

2 Cantonese-style sweet sausages of any kind

About 6 ounces | 170 g shallots, finely chopped

4 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons | 170 g regular rice flour (not sticky/sweet/glutinous rice flour)

Reserved cooled mushroom soaking water, plus more cool water as needed to make 1½ cups | 375 ml

Lots of freshly ground black pepper (at least 1 teaspoon)

2 tablespoons regular soy sauce

Fry-up and serving:

Cornstarch, as needed

Fry the charcuterie

Peanut or vegetable oil, as needed

Flaky sea salt (like Maldon), for garnish

Chopped scallions or cilantro, for garnish

1. Place the dried shrimp in a heatproof boil and cover with boiling water; let them plump up while you prepare the rest of the ingredients, and then drain and dice coarsely.

2. Trim and peel the radishes. Cut them up to make 2 cups | 275 g of batons (around ¼ inch | 5 mm on 2 sides, and no more than 1 inch | 2 cm long), and coarsely grate the rest. Remove and discard the stems from the mushrooms, and then chop the caps into ¼ inch | 5 mm pieces. If the cured meat and sausages are at all hard, steam them for around 10 minutes to soften them up; reserve any juices and add them to the batter later on. Remove and discard the skin from the pork belly, and then chop it as well as the sausages into very small pieces about the size of lentils. Finely chop the shallots and garlic. 

Rice flour, but not the sticky kind

3. Measure the rice flour into a medium work bowl, and then stir in the water to form a thin batter. Line the bottom of 2 large loaf pans with parchment paper so that the sides extend above the top. Grease both the paper and the insides of the pans. If you are not using a bamboo steamer basket, wrap the lid with a kitchen towel so that moisture doesn't drip back into the cake while it steams.

4. Place the chopped cured meats in a cold wok and fry them over medium heat so that the fat is rendered as the meat cooks. Once the fat is translucent, add the diced shrimp, mushrooms, shallots and garlic, and stir-fry them over medium-high heat until the mushrooms have shrunk down and started to brown a little bit. Scoop the meat mixture out of the wok and into a work bowl.

5. Turn the heat under the wok to high. Add all of the radish shreds and batons to the wok. Sprinkle the black pepper over the radishes, and then cook them, tossing occasionally, until quite a lot of liquid forms at the bottom of the wok and the radishes are completely cooked but not at all mushy. Toss the meat mixture in with the cooked radishes, reserving, if you like, a few tablespoons of the meaty crumbles as decoration later on. Taste the radish-meat mixture and adjust the seasoning, if necessary.

The steamed pudding

6. Remove the wok from the heat and stir the thin batter into the cooked radishes. Gently toss the radish with the batter off of the heat so that the bottom does not scorch. After about 30 seconds, the residual heat in the wok should cook the batter enough so that it starts to thicken. When everything is completely combined, scrape into the prepared pans. Sprinkle on the optional reserved meat mixture, and then use the parchment paper ends to compact the mixture and smooth down the top.

7. Heat a few inches of water under your steamer until it comes to a full boil. Either position the pans on a large trivet and cover them with the wrapped lid, or place the pans in covered bamboo steamer baskets. (You may need to steam the pans separately if your steamer is not large enough.) Steam the pudding for around 90 minutes to 2 hours, replenishing the water as needed, but otherwise not opening the lid, as this will help to cook it evenly. Test to ensure it is completely done through by inserting a paring knife into the center; it should come out clean. Remove the pans from the steamer and allow them to come to room temperature before covering the pans with plastic wrap and refrigerating.

... and then fry it up

8. To serve, slice the chilled pudding into either 1-inch | 2-cm cubes or into 1-inch | 2-cm thick slices. Coat them completely in cornstarch and shake off any excess. Prepare a serving platter by the stove and cover it with a few sheets of parchment or tempura paper. Heat about ¼ inch | 5 mm of oil over medium-high heat in the bottom of a flat-bottomed pan until a pinch of cornstarch immediately foams and subsides, and then add the dusted cubes to the hot oil piece by piece. Fry them all over, adding more oil as needed. When they are a golden brown, remove to the platter. Serve hot sprinkled with sea salt and fresh cilantro and/or chopped scallions. A dipping sauce may be prepared, but is not necessary. 

Pot au feu chez Huang

Autumn is finally here. The big-leaf maples in our foothills have thrown off their summer green for their stunning fall yellow. 

The flowers in the front yard are starting to fade and stud the garden with warm swaths of brown, confusing the butterflies, but delighting the chickadees and sparrows with this sudden abundance of tiny seeds. 

We’re even supposed to get rain this week, miracles of miracles. 

And so I’m putting away the salads and pulling out my recipes for stews and soups and other comfort foods that will cheer up the evenings and warm our toes.

Today’s dish is ostensibly from Zhejiang, but I’ve messed around with it a little bit. For example, I brown the beef and ginger, rather than keep them pale, as I love the deep flavor that caramelization provides. However, I don’t brown the onions, as that would be make this particular dish too dark.

Heavenly marbleization

Traditionally this is a very simple soup designed to highlight a relatively rare ingredient for Eastern Chinese cuisines: beef. Normally you’ll find this only in the far west, north, and central highlands, but once it a while it shows up in this area, as well as in Guangdong (like Crispy Beef Tomato Chow Mein… oh how I love that).

The only thing I’d advise you to really pay attention to here is the quality of the beef. Nothing will be able to disguise less-than-perfect meat, just as nothing can compare to the aroma and flavor of the finest beef. So last week when I came across these lovely chuck steaks at the Five Dot Ranch stall at Oxbow, they practically called out to me. I also managed to stock up on other hard-to-get yet incredibly delicious items such as beef heart, tripe, and shins. (More on those in the future.)

When an ingredient is as rare as beef in Zhejiang, you know that their heirloom recipes are going to put a spotlight on its presence, for it would have been an expensive treat. At the same time, any gaminess would have always been downplayed, for that is something that wouldn’t ever play well at a Hangzhou feast. So, what you end up with is something actually quite delicate and clever. Stark, even.

Ginger is a necessity here

Because it is so stark, I like to serve this with a mellow scallion-ginger dipping sauce. You’ve probably had this before many times in Cantonese delis, as it is almost a mandatory accompaniment to other plain dishes like White Cut Chicken. Using it here transforms something almost Puritanical into a sybaritic experience, for each slice of the braised beef gets bathed in a richly seasoned oil. 

I’ve tossed in spinach at the end, too, to make this more like a pot au feu– meat and veg all in one tidy casserole. It’s simple, yet delectable, and yet one more reason why I always look forward to autumn.

Pot au feu chez Huang

Huángjiā qīngdùn níuròu 黃家清燉牛肉

Zhejiang crossed with Guangdong

Serves 4 to 6

Beef:

1 tablespoon oil

1 generous tablespoon julienned ginger

1½ pounds | 750 g chuck steak (or whatever braise-worthy cut of beef looks good to you)

¼ cup | 60 ml Shaoxing rice wine, plus more as needed

Half an onion, thickly sliced

Freshly ground black pepper

Boiling water, as needed

Ice cubes, as needed

Mushroom seasoning or sea salt to taste

1 bunch spinach, cleaned and coarsely chopped, optional

Dipping sauce:

See the sauce for White Cut Chicken

Ahhhh, that caramel color

Note: These directions are for a pressure cooker. If you don’t have one, simply follow the directions through Step 2 using a wok or casserole, and then simmer the beef uncovered until it is barely fork tender, adding more liquid as needed. 

1. Set the bottom of a pressure cooker over medium-high heat and pour in the oil. Sprinkle in the ginger and then add the steak. Sear the steak on both sides until it is brown and crispy – the best way to do this is to patiently wait until a crust has formed on the bottom, at which point you will be able to gently nudge the beef free. It will stick and tear if you fuss with it before it’s ready, so really, wait for that crust to form. Always remember that caramelization is divine.

2. Pour in the rice wine. Add the onions and then the boiling water to barely cover. Do not add salt of any kind at this point, as it will toughen the meat. Cover the pressure cooker, seal, and cook on high pressure for 40 minutes, regulating the heat as needed. Remove the pressure cooker from the heat and let it cool down until you can open it easily. The beef should be barely fork tender, but not falling apart.

Fatty icebergs

3. Remove the beef to a plate, cool it to room temperature, and refrigerate it if you are not using it that evening. When the stock has cooled down, add a good handful of ice cubes to it, as this will solidify the fat. Strain the stock and discard the fat and solids. 

4. Cut the beef crosswise against the grain into slices about ½ inch | 1 cm thick, or however you like. Set it in a casserole and pour the strained stock over it. Gently raise the heat to a simmer so that the meat is warmed through but not violently recooked. Taste the stock and adjust the seasoning with more rice wine or whatever else you think it needs. Add the optional spinach, cover, and simmer these together just to wilt the leaves. Scoot the spinach into an attractive nest. Serve hot with the dipping sauce.

Easy Cantonese hotdish

Leftovers can be the perfect starting point for a creative yet utterly delicious dinner. Case in point: what do you do with a handful of cooked mild fish? Turn it into sandwiches? Feed it to the cat? If you’re like me, you’ll happily transform this into a Cantonese casserole, otherwise known as a bao.

Good, cheap Hong Kong-style restaurants will often offer you a page filled with bao dishes because this is a lovely way to eat. In a way, this is very similar to a Midwestern hotdish because it’s a complete meal, served piping hot, and usually is constructed out of cheap cuts of meat combined with things like bean curd (aka doufu or tofu), mushrooms, vegetables, and an interesting starch, like taro.

Doufu sliced into batons

A bao is homey stuff. In fact, this should be the sort of thing a mom would make during cold weather when she’s rummaging around in the refrigerator drawers, looking for odds and ends to put together for dinner. 

It’s definitely not banquet food, and probably not something you’d serve to fancy company. Rather, look on bao as a way to feed your family with the least amount of money and effort.

Today’s recipe is like that. Use what you have and wing the rest. For example, I call for firm doufu here, but silken can be used instead—just be sure not brown it, but rather add it at the end along with the fish, since it only needs to heat through. Don’t like fish or just don’t happen to have any hanging around? No problem. Toss in some leftover roasted duck, shredded chicken, extra vegetables, or whatever you want. It’s all good.

Drain it on paper towels

The only thing you need to keep an eye on is the timing and the moisture. Certain ingredients like mushrooms, onions, taro, and firm bean curd need time to cook down, and this requires more liquid to the mix, since it boils away after a while. Tender things, though, should be added at the last minute, much like the green onions and leftover fish here. A minute or two is plenty of time for them to get heated up, but it’s not enough time for them to cook down into nothingness.

It’s really helpful if you have a small sandpot to work with, as just the looks of a lovingly used one is enough to get my appetite roaring. When you’ve had a workhorse of a sandpot for a couple of years, the bottom will look crazed and gunked up. That’s a good sign. It means that while the pottery cracked over time, the juices of whatever was inside the pot leaked out and formed a waterproof seal. I just love the way this happens and try to make my sandpots last for years until there is more gunk than pottery.

Fry up the bean curd for better texture

So, if you have a sandpot, wash it carefully by hand when you’re through and always let it air dry. Also, don’t give it too rigorous a scrubbing on the outside, but rather a simple swipe with the sponge, as you want to encourage that natural glue to keep the pot in one piece.

Cantonese bean curd and fish casserole

Dòufú yúpiàn bào 豆腐魚片煲

Guangdong

Serves 2 to 4

1 block (about 14 ounces | 400 g) firm or extra-firm bean curd

The gunk on my sandpot bottom

5 tablespoons | 75 ml peanut or vegetable oil

Half a yellow onion

6 thin slices ginger

3 cloves garlic, minced

¼ cup | 60 ml mild rice wine (like Taiwan Mijiu)

2 tablespoons regular soy sauce

1 teaspoon sugar

2 cups | 500 ml water

3 or 4 fresh black mushrooms

1 carrot

2 green onions

Leftover fish (about ½ cup | 100 g), or whatever you like

1. Cut the bean curd horizontally and lengthwise into quarters, and then slice it into batons. Lay the bean curd on a sheet or two of paper towels to wick up most of the moisture.

Simmer for an hour

2. Pour ¼ cup | 60 ml oil in a frying pan and set it over medium-high heat. Add half of the bean curd to the hot oil and immediately cover the pan with a spatter screen. Fry the bean curd on two sides until it is golden. Remove to a plate and repeat with the second half of the bean curd. Use any leftover oil for something else.

3. While the bean curd is frying, pour 1 tablespoon oil into a 4-cup sandpot or casserole and set it over medium heat. Slice the onions into thin strips and add them to the sandpot along with the ginger. Stir these around, and when the onion has softened, toss in the garlic. When the onions begin to take on a golden tinge, pour in the rice wine, soy sauce, sugar, and 1½ cups | 350 ml water. Remove the stems from the mushrooms and tear the caps into large wedges. Add the mushrooms and fried bean curd to the sandpot, bring it to a boil, reduce the heat to maintain just a bare simmer, and cover the sandpot. Cook until most of the liquid has evaporated, about 1 hour. The casserole can be made ahead of time up to this point and reheated later on.

Add carrots, green onions, and fish

4. Add ½ cup | 125 ml water to the pot and bring it to a boil. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Peel the carrot and slice it on the diagonal before adding it to sandpot. Cover and cook for 5 to 10 minutes, until the carrots are tender but still barely crunchy. Cut the green onions on the diagonal and break the fish into chunks as you desire, but try to remove any bones you find. Add the green onions and fish to the simmering pot, cover, and heat through for around 1 minute. Toss the fish gently into the bean curd and serve hot.