Something fit for a Sichuan feast

Pork hocks are severely under-appreciated parts of the animal, so much so that I usually can only find them in markets that cater to people who really know how to eat the best parts of the pig, namely Latino and Chinese places. 

Nowadays high-end butchers are finally beginning to offer them, too, so see if you can get grass-fed pigs, for they taste so much better than factory farm ones.

This dish is simply wonderful. The thick layer of fat slowly melts down during the braise and turns into a creamy blanket for the juicy meat. And surrounding it all is probably the best part of all—the skin—for it takes on a silky texture that offers yet one more bit of textural contrast. 

Most of the time, pork braises that feature the spicy fermented bean sauce of Sichuan known as là dòubànjiàng use only small chunks or ribbons of meat, and so the porky flavor and meaty texture is easily lost in all of those fireworks.

But if you use a chubby hock like here, the meat gets to keep its individuality. It also has enough heft to stand apart from the sauce, so that when you take a bite, you’ll first be pleasantly assaulted by the chilies and Sichuan peppercorns, but then these will fade away as your teeth sink into the meat and other, more earthy flavors and juicy textures take over.

Absolutely delectable

This dish is only vaguely spicy after this long braise, but that is what you want for in a fancier, more classical dish like this. Traditionally, this would be one of the centerpieces of your banquet, and you want each course to have a different amount of heat, numbness, saltiness, and even sweetness, so that your guests enjoy a wonderful array of flavors as they dine.

Dòubànjiàng (both spicy and mild versions) are finally starting to get some recognition outside of China, and for good reason: these offer remarkably tasty ways to jump-start the flavors in braises. You usually find them in dishes featuring things like freshwater fish, chicken, eggplant, and (of course) pork, for they are complex pastes made out of things like ground chilies, Sichuan peppercorns, garlic, salt, and moldy beans. The moldy beans are what set off the fermentation in this thick mahogany brew, and they are also what give us such foods of the gods as soy sauce, so think of these as your slimy little friends.

I’ve made this sort of paste from scratch, including soaking-steaming-drying-wetting-molding both fava beans and soy beans. It’s a bit smelly, and my husband thinks I'm more than a bit crazy, but that way I get to have as much fermented bean sauce as I want, so I’m definitely not knocking it. Going this level of granular in the kitchen also gives me a better understanding of what goes into making China’s magnificent battery of fermented sauces, and also what to look for when I really need a fix and don’t have time to waste. See the Note below for some suggestions.

Again, think about making this sort of dish for a party, because it really is festive food. It looks incredibly beautiful, too, and if your diners are sophisticated, the surprise of being served a perfectly done pork hock will bowl them over. And even though it looks and tastes complicated, this dish is a timesaver, for you should make it a couple of days ahead so that it has time to simmer and sit, which matures the flavors in amazing ways. You then only need to do a couple simple steps after that, and you're done.

Keep this recipe in your hip pocket for those times you really need to impress.

Spicy braised Sichuan pork hock

Dòubàn zhŏuzi  豆瓣肘子

Sichuan cuisine

Serves 6

Pork:

1 fresh pork hock (about 2 pounds | 1 kg)

Trivet in the pan

Water

2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil

¼ cup | 80 g Sichuan spicy fermented bean sauce (là dòubànjiàng, see Note)

2 tablespoons | 15 g finely chopped ginger

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 scallion, chopped

1 teaspoon ground toasted Sichuan peppercorns

1 ounce | 25 g yellow rock sugar

1 tablespoon regular soy sauce

¼ cup | 60 g Shaoxing rice wine

2 quarts | 2 liters unsalted (or low salt) chicken stock, divided in half

To finish:
1 teaspoon cornstarch
2 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 bunch spinach or other greens, washed carefully, dried, and lightly chopped

Chopped scallions

1. Place the hock in a narrow 4-quart | 4-liter saucepan. Cover it with water and bring the pan to a full boil. Lower the heat to a gentle simmer and blanch the pork for about 20 minutes to remove most of the impurities, which will give you a much nicer-tasting piece of pork. Dump out the water and rinse both the pork and the pan.

2. Set a small trivet at the bottom of the pan and place the hock on top of that. This will help keep the pork skin from sticking to the bottom of the pan.

3. Pour the oil in a wok set over medium heat. Add the bean sauce, ginger, ginger, garlic, scallion, and peppercorns. Stir the aromatics until the paste starts to bubble. Add the rock sugar, soy sauce, rice wine, and half of the stock to the wok. Raise the heat to high and simmer for about 15 minutes. Pour this over the pork in the saucepan and top it off with the rest of the stock. (This thin liquid should come up about halfway on the pork hock. It will thicken up later on.) 

Ready for its long braise

4. Bring the uncovered pan to a full boil, and then lower the heat to a simmer. The sauce will probably froth at this point, so don’t cover it yet. After about 15 minutes, when the sauce has settled down, cover the pan closely, reduce the heat to its lowest setting, and slowly cook the hock for around 2½ hours, carefully turning the hock over a couple of times. If the bones fall out, that’s ok, as the pork ought to be nicely tender at this point. 

5. Remove the pan from the heat and let it come to room temperature. Taste the sauce and make any adjustments you want at this point. It should be thick, velvety, and full-flavored. Place the pork in a 1-quart | 1-liter heatproof bowl with the pointy end of the hock down, add the sauce to about 1 inch | 2 cm from the top, cover, and refrigerate for at least one day and up to four. (You can freeze it if you need to store it longer.) Pour the rest of the sauce into another container and use it for something else, like braised bean curd. 

6. Set the cold bowl in a steamer or pan fitted with a trivet. Add water to the bottom of the pan and slowly bring the water to a full boil. Cover the pan and reduce the heat to maintain a steady simmer. Steam the pork for 1 hour. Remove it from the steamer and let it cool down for about 10 minutes. 

7. Use a turkey baster or ladle to transfer the sauce to a wok. Set a rimmed plate or shallow bowl over the pork and then invert the pork onto it. Boil the sauce for 10 to 15 minutes on high to concentrate the flavors. Mix the cornstarch into the water to make a slurry. When the sauce is covered with bubbles, stir in the slurry so that it doesn't lump up, and then boil the sauce quickly for about 30 seconds to cook off any raw taste in the cornstarch. Pour this over the hock.

8. Add the sesame oil in the wok and set it over high heat. When the oil starts to smoke, add the spinach. (Do not add any salt, as the sauce will already be savory enough.) Toss it around over the heat until it turns an emerald green, and then arrange this in a nest around the pork hock. Sprinkle the dish with the chopped scallions and serve with a small knife to help cut the hock into thin wedges and a spoon for the sauce.

 

One of my go-to brands

Note

I like the Sichuan bean sauces made in Taiwan. I’ve used them for decades, and the flavor has been very consistent. Lots of Mainland brands claim to be made in Pixian nowadays, but the demand for them is so high that I’ve found many to be lacking in flavor and depth. If you’d like to try Taiwan’s brands, check out Haha and Szechuan. I like to get these in small cans like the one on the right, since the sauce stays fresher that way. I just scrape out any leftover sauce into a clean jam jar, label it, and refrigerate it.

Sichuan classic updated: hot bean sauce fish

One of our favorite places to eat on the outskirts of Taipei was a Sichuan-style place near the little port of Tamsui (Danshui) at the mouth of the river that weaves through the capital. The place was always packed, and almost everyone ordered this specialty of the house.

First, though, we had to take life and death into our hands and decide which fish would end up on our plates, which started out feeling rather grisly, but as time went on it made me more appreciative of the sacrifice that something was making (i.e., the live carp) to feed me.

           

Look for bright eyes and a fast swimmer with no suspicious fungi or parasites calling it home. But then comes the harder part: figuring out whether it is a boy or girl.

Why? Because we (and everyone else, for that matter) were always hoping to snag a fat one filled with the lovely, tasty, texturally wonderful coral roe (yúzĭ 魚子), rather than packed with a bland sperm sac. The males had what is called “fish white” (yúbái 魚白) in them, which still was edible, but it always felt like a consolation prize.

Frying salmon filets

One time we had settled on the perfect one when another person in our party insisted that we were wrong, that she had honed in on a female jam-packed with roe. She was so definite that we let her decide, and so we ended up with a boy on our plate. Oh, the shame she had to bear.

Those in the know like us would finish up the fish and then send the plate with all of its sauce back to the kitchen for a second round of either regular white bean curd or “red bean curd” (i.e., coagulated blood) quickly braised in all of those delicious leftover flavors, and that would be the point at which we’d scoop up as much as we felt we could get away with onto bowls of freshly steamed rice. At the end of the meal, even saddling us with fish white could be generously forgiven… but never forgotten.

There is probably no fish dish more quintessentially Sichuanese than douban yu, or possibly even more delicious. But it is in serious need of updating, as the traditional way with the ingredients is to use a whole freshwater carp, braise it in the sauce, and then add the bean curd later as a final course.

Sichuan bean sauce + ginger + garlic

I've found a much easier and tasty way to cook this, one that assumes you have little more than 30 minutes from start to finish, and one that will require you prepare only a pot of steamed rice and possibly a side vegetable in order to make this a truly memorable dinner. 

This is traditionally made with a whole fish, but since they are hard at times to hunt down, I've come to rely on salmon filets, which are perfectly tasty here, gorgeous to look at, and firm enough to stand up to a simple braise.

Fish and bean curd in fermented bean sauce

Dòufŭ dòubàn yú  豆腐豆瓣魚

Sichuan
Serves 4

Fish:

12 ounces (or so) salmon filets, or 1 pound whole fish

¼ cup peanut or vegetable oil

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh ginger

Fry the bean sauce

3 green onions, white parts only, coarsely chopped

3 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

Bean curd:

1 pound fresh firm bean curd or coagulated pork, chicken, or duck blood

Boiling filtered water, as needed

1 tablespoon sea salt

Sauce:

3 tablespoons hot fermented bean sauce (la doubanjiang)

¼ cup rice lees solids

2 tablespoons rice lees liquid or Shaoxing rice wine

2 teaspoons sugar

2 teaspoons regular soy sauce

¾ cup unsalted stock or filtered water

1½ teaspoons dark vinegar

1 teaspoon cornstarch mixed with 2 tablespoons filtered water

½ teaspoon finely ground toasted Sichuan peppercorns

3 green onions, green parts only, coarsely chopped

1. Clean and scale the fish, but keep the skin on; pat it very dry. If you are using filets, cut the fish across the grain into strips as wide as you want them. If you are using a whole fish, leave it whole.

Simmer the bean curd

2. Heat a wok over medium-high, add the oil and swirl it around before adding the ginger. As soon as it is fragrant, lower the heat to medium and place the fish skin-side down in the oil. Leave the fish be while it browns, and as soon as it moves easily when you shake the wok, turn the fish over and add the green onion whites and garlic to the oil. When the second side is lightly browned, either scoot everything up the sides of the wok out of the hot oil or remove the fish and aromatics to a plate.

3. While the fish is browning, cut the bean curd or blood into 16 pieces. Place the bean curd or blood into a small saucepan, cover with the boiling water, and add the salt. Bring the water to a boil and then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook the pieces for around 5 minutes and dump out the water.

4. Remove all but about 2 tablespoons oil from the wok. Heat the wok to medium high and add the bean sauce. Stir this for about 30 seconds to get the sauce hot and smelling terrific, and then add the rice lees and liquid (or rice wine), sugar, soy sauce, and stock or water. As it comes to a boil, add the bean curd or blood and simmer these for around 5 to 10 minutes, until they are cooked and flavorsome. Make a well in the center of the wok and return the fish to the bottom of the wok, heat the fish on both sides in the sauce, and swirl in the vinegar; taste and adjust the seasoning. Dribble in the cornstarch slurry, swirl the wok around to mix it in, and then plate the fish and bean curd/blood. Dust the top with the Sichuan peppercorns and green onion leaves and serve immediately.

Cold spicy & numbing eggplant

If ever there was a non-Muslim dish that reminded me of the Middle East, it would be Sichuan's way with cold eggplant. Just as with baba ghanoush and other Levantine appetizers, these silken strands of beige vegetable matter are garnished with lots of oil and spices and inspiration, turning them into aromatic pillows that seem to float above the plate.

Dishes like these are meant to be savored as a prelude to dinner, as a suggestion of the cook's prowess, and as a hint of many good things to come. Eggplant is not beloved by too many people, and that is all right with me, because that means that there are just that much more of those amethysts beauties left for me.

Rabidly aromatic sauce

But I admit it, I too didn't care too much for eggplant when I was a kid. We almost never ate it except at Italian restaurants, and even then it served mainly as a transportation system for heavy breading, sour red sauces, and heavy layers of cheese. I could never taste the moist wafers underneath that heavy assault, but then again, I couldn't taste the chicken or the veal that was fixed that way, either.

Then Julia Child and ratatouille entered my life, and eggplant became a thing of beauty. And years later I went to Taiwan and realized that even more wondrous things could be done with this strange vegetable.

My favorite, though, has always been this simple dish. Unlike baba ghanoush, though, the eggplants here don't swim in oil. The secret lies in steaming them first, shredding them by hand, and only then lavishing a generous amount of scented oils and vibrant flavors on top. Eggplant by its very nature is bland and reticent, so it acts as the perfect canvas, the ultimate foil for the most explosive combinations.

Cold spicy & numbing eggplant 
Liángbàn qiézĭ 涼拌茄子

Sichuan
Serves 6 to 8 as an appetizer 

Fry the crunchy bits first

2 pounds Chinese eggplant (see Tips)

2 tablespoons Chili Pepper Oil

1 clove garlic, minced

1 tablespoon finely minced fresh ginger

1 tablespoon hot bean sauce (la doubanjiang)

1 teaspoon ground toasted Sichuan peppercorns

1 tablespoon regular soy sauce

1 tablespoon rice or apple cider vinegar

1 tablespoon sugar

2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil

1 green onion, trimmed

1. Use a vegetable peeler to remove the skins of the eggplants. Trim off the caps and any bruises. Cut the eggplants crosswise into approximately 4-inch lengths, and if the eggplants are more than an inch wide, cut these in half lengthwise. 

A welcome beginning to dinner

2. Place the peeled eggplants in a steamer and steam over high heat until very tender; if you insert a chopstick into the thickest part, it should offer no more resistance than pudding. Remove the eggplants from the steamer, drain off any water and juices in a colander, and let them cool off until they can be easily handled. Tear the eggplants into thin strips along their natural grain and place them in a medium work bowl.

3. Heat the chili oil in a wok over medium-high until it shimmers, and then add the garlic, ginger, and spicy bean sauce. Stir these aromatics around for about 10 seconds to release their fragrance, and then add the ground toasted Sichuan peppercorns, soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, and sesame oil. Quickly cook these only to remove the rawness of the sauces and dissolve the sugar, taste and adjust seasoning, and them pour these over the shredded eggplant. Finely slice the green onion and add it to the eggplant. Toss well, chill, and serve.

Tips

Chinese eggplants are a medium purple color and are longer than other varieties – some reaching over a food long – while Japanese ones are smaller and darker purple; Japanese eggplants can be used interchangeably with the Chinese ones in almost any recipe. Western globe eggplants, though, usually have more water and seeds, and so might be a bit texturally different in the final dish.

Long Chinese eggplant

Peeling the eggplant is what gives this dish its remarkable silkiness.

This dish can be made a couple of days ahead of time, and the flavors only improve. If you do make this ahead of time, add the green onions just before serving so that they retain their color and texture. The ginger and garlic, though, will offer tiny bits of crunch no matter when they get tossed in, and these contrast wonderfully with the glossy eggplant.

Make this dish as chili-laden and numbing as you wish. As given here, the dish is comfortably spicy.

“Fish-aroma” prawns

I happened to find myself with some nice prawns, and the first thing I wanted to do is make the following dish, one that you rarely find in even Sichuan restaurants because prawns are considered just too expensive, I guess. 

But this is one heck of a way to emphasize the crisp succulence of prawns, as the crispy veggies and tangy sauce serve as the perfect backups. 

It's sort of like Diana Ross... she was never as good as when she had the Supremes ooh-la-la-ing behind her. They added harmony and high notes and low notes that Miss Diana just couldn't do on her own, and oh how I miss Mary Wilson.

I use pickled chilies here, as is traditional, although some Chinese chefs now use solely hot fermented bean sauce. Both are good, but there’s a reason for the pickled chilies… 

Some lovely prawns

It all has to do with why this dish is called “fish aroma” or "fish fragrance" or however you want to translate that inscrutable name, yuxiang:

Some cookbooks say that the name came about because this is a sauce that is used for fish, which is not too bad an explanation. But I found a better argument: the traditional source for heat in this dish was a kind of pickled chilies flavored with the carp called jiyu. This fish was fermented in the vat with the chilies to add extra umami -- or savory, or xianwei -- tastes. Like Vietnamese fish sauce, this boosted the meaty undertones and added additional flavor. Hence yuxiang. 

I use both the pickled chilies and hot bean sauce here, but with the emphasis on the pickled chilies. They have a purity of flavor that is hard to beat, but the hot bean sauce gives good color and body to the sauce, so there's a bit of that in there, too. Best of both worlds. 

The crunchy bits

When I make this, I put in the maximum number of pickled chilies, but that is not for everyone, of course, so adjust the heat to your taste.

There is not a whole lot of sauce on these prawns, which is the way I like it. Most restaurants give you a goopy layer that is too much cornstarch and too little flavor other than sweet and sour. Instead, this is just like one of Cindy Birdsong's sequined numbers: a whole lotta fire and glitter and color, but here it's courtesy of the generous use of crunchy vegetables and aromatics. 

I do get carried away by good food and Motown.

“Fish-aroma” prawns 
Yuxiang duixia 魚香對蝦  
Sichuan

Serves 4 to 6 as an entree

Prawns:

1 pound fresh or frozen prawns, preferably with their tails still attached (see Tips)

1 egg white, lightly beaten

¼ teaspoon sea salt

2 teaspoons cornstarch

2 cups frying oil

Vegetables:

4 fresh water chestnuts (see Tips)

4 fresh Chinese black mushrooms or wood ear mushrooms, stems removed

2 to 8 Pickled Red Chilies, or store-bought pickled whole chilies

8 cloves garlic

4 green onions, trimmed

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh peeled ginger

Sauce:

5 teaspoons sugar

4 teaspoons rice vinegar

2 teaspoons regular soy sauce

½ cup filtered water

2 teaspoons cornstarch

2 teaspoons hot fermented bean paste (la doubanjiang)

Flash fried

1. Clean and devein the prawns. Pat them dry with a paper towel, place them in a medium work bowl, and toss in the egg white, salt, and cornstarch. Let the prawns marinate while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

2. Trim the water chestnuts and chop both them and the mushrooms into fine (eighth inch) pieces; place in a small work bowl. Slice the pickled chilies into thin rings, peel and chop the garlic into very small pieces, chop the white parts of the onions into thin rings, and place these plus the ginger into a small work bowl. Cut the green parts of the onions into thin rings and keep them separate, as they will be added to the prawns at the last minute.

3. Mix the sugar, vinegar, soy sauce, water, and cornstarch together in a small bowl, but don’t add the bean paste at this time.

4. Prepare a Chinese spider or slotted spoon, a bowl for the hot oil, a bowl to hold the cooked prawns, and a small serving platter. Heat the oil in a wok over high until it bubbles and add the prawns. Stir them around in the hot oil for a minute or two until the tails are pink and the bodies have turned opaque. (Don’t overcook them, as they will continue to cook from the residual heat and also will cook a tiny bit more when added to the sauce.) Remove the shrimp from the oil with the spider and place them in a bowl.

5. Drain off all but 2 tablespoons of the oil from the wok. With the heat still on high, add the chilies, garlic, whites of the onions, and ginger to the oil and quickly stir-fry them for a few seconds to release their fragrance. Add the fermented bean paste and toss everything together, then add the water chestnuts and mushrooms. Quickly toss these until the mushrooms start to look cooked, and then add the prawns and sauce. Working very fast, stir them over the heat until the sauce thickens, which should only take a couple of seconds; taste and adjust seasoning. Add the green parts of the onions, toss once, and arrange the prawns on your serving platter. Serve immediately.

Tips

Sweet prawns & a jazzy sauce

Get wild-caught prawns (or large shrimp), as these are much, much, much cleaner and healthier than farmed ones. Frozen are fine; just defrost them and then clean the prawns. Be sure and remove the sandy intestine that runs down the back. To do this, lightly slit the back open, and you should see a black line. Use the tip of a paring knife to pull it completely out. Don’t skip this step, or your prawns and shrimp will be gritty and awful.

Nothing can compare to fresh water chestnuts. The canned ones taste like a can and nothing else, so I never, ever recommend them. If you can’t find fresh water chestnuts, use some jicama instead, which tastes a whole lot like water chestnuts and even has a similar texture. If that isn't available, a firm pear or apple would work in a pinch. What you want is a gentle sweetness and a light crunch against the prawns.

Hunan's pumpkin stuffed with spicy rice crumb pork

Before we continue on our look at south-central China's cusines, I'm going to take a quick detour north to another chili-loving paradise before returning to Guizhou, Guangxi, and then Yunnan. 

There's a reason for this: it's getting close to autumn -- we're less than a month away from the Moon Festival on September 30th this year -- so pumpkins have started showing up in the markets. And I can never wait to get my hands on a really fresh, beautiful kabocha when they are still heavy and juicy from the field.

Just such a thing happened the other day when a pile of kabochas and other pumpkin-like squashes caught my eye between a bin full of mauve-skinned sweet potatoes and a dangerously high stack of yellow onions. I couldn't resist. This pumpkin was a beaut of a thing, speckly green with a twisting stem that spoke of happy growth in some sandy land, with just enough water to make it grow perfectly round. 

Cut a fancy edge...

And I knew exactly what I was going to make with it: a delightful banquet dish from the chili-laced kitchens of Hunan, one that always makes me think of cool Taipei fall weather when hearty fare and deep aromas summoned me into the depths of my favorite haunt for dishes that tasted of the capital city of Changsha. These were restaurants where the owners and the chefs were born and bred on chilies back on the Mainland, and no shortcuts were permitted in their kitchens.

You see, back in the Seventies, Taipei still reveled in the mastery of great chefs who had fled the Communist takeover in China.  That was bad luck for the food lovers left in China, but it was incredibly good luck for me.

One of the absolute undeniable perks of my job as an interpreter for a museum and the library there was that I got to eat amazing, world-class, insanely good classics that had pretty much disappeared everywhere else on the globe. I'd be hauled along on some dinner for foreign dignitaries where I always tried to pay enough attention to the drift of the conversation that I could keep up a running translation, but come on, I was there for one reason and one reason only: the food.

and you get this!

Both the museum and the library directors were from the Yangtze River area, so we could count on hitting all of the best Jiangsu and Zhejiang-style palaces in town. It didn't hurt that Chiang Kai-shek -- Taiwan's strongman and Mao Zedong's sworn enemy -- was from the same area, so the flavors of Suzhou and Hangzhou and Shanghai and all the other great capitals of East China's elegant cuisines were always in good supply.

But I also had another partner in culinary crime who would take me to the spicy joints and chili-laden places of fine dining whenever the choice was up to her: my immediate boss at the library and fellow heat lover, Teresa. As I've mentioned in the past, my Spice Girl girlfriends are legion, packing away anything hotter than hot with a charming combination of ladylike aplomb and undisguised gusto.

One thing that these friends turned me on to was spicy pork coated in rice crumbs. And life has never been the same. This is fever-dream food, serious culinary genius, the kind of stuff that you'd think about if you were stuck on a desert island and surviving on nothing but fish and coconuts. But it's also so easy that you'll have a raving success your first time around.

A few months ago we featured a Beijing-style dish of duck and rice crumbs steamed in lotus leaves, and this pretty much follows the same principles. In fact, the rice crumbs are exactly the same.

But while the northern-style dish was mellow and refined, with only the duck meat and sweet wheat paste making much of a statement, this dish is a riot of colors and flavors and textures.

Marinating pork shoulder

Another skill that we've looked at before will serve you in good stead here, for carving a watermelon is almost exactly the same thing as carving a pumpkin, only with the pumpkin it's a little bit easier since you just have to scoop out the seeds rather than all of that melon.

The meat is seasoned in a salty, spicy marinade, and then rolled in the rice crumbs and steamed until cooked through. Then, it is packed into a hollowed out pumpkin and quickly steamed to both flavor and cook the pumpkin flesh. 

The magic happens at serving time. First, you get this blast of steam and vibrant zig-zags of orange pumpkin against the dark green skin, with a reddish brown tumble of meat and rice.

But that's only the beginning, for the pumpkin is sweet and mellow and soft, making it a perfect foil for the meat. In fact, I usually prefer to eat this dish as is without any rice because it is just an ideal balance of meat, starch, and vegetable.

Secret ingredient: mushrooms

And if that was not enough of a selling point, you should know that this dish only improves if you make it a day ahead of time. That extra 24 hours gives the pumpkin time enough to get acquainted with the spicy meat, and it absorbs those flavors, as well as the buttery juices from the pork. It's utterly sublime then, and if you use a kabocha as your pumpkin of choice, you'll even be able to eat the skin, as it becomes just as tender as the flesh.

The meat, of course, is open to lots of interpretations. Fatty short ribs or baby back ribs are wonderful here, as are beef or chicken or even bean curd. The main thing to keep an eye on is the fat level, because you need that oily moisture to make each mouthful worth a moan of pleasure. So, if you use a lean cut of meat or some tofu batons, add more peanut oil to the marinade to balance out the levels. Remember that when it comes to ratios of fat to the rest of the other ingredients, this is a whole lot like a confit, and there's no such thing as a low fat confit.

One of the two things I've done here that is a bit out of the ordinary is to add fresh mushrooms to the mix. They add an almost fatty mouthfeel to the meat, acting as soft pillows that add another layer of flavor while soaking up the marinade. 

Tying the string around the pumpkin and plate is the other one of my own humble contributions, and it's very important here because it accomplishes two things. 

Toss with rice crumbs

First, this allows you to easily remove the pumpkin from a deep steamer without burning yourself; just hook a big fork on the knot and lift. Second, since the kabocha turns tender after 20 minutes in the steamer, if you don't have a plate underneath the squash, the string will slice it into wedges while it's still in the steamer, and then you'll have an unholy mess on your hands. I must be allowed to boast: this invention of yours truly is extremely useful. Too bad they don't award Nobel Prizes in the field of food...

As the days cool down and the nights grow longer, this is one terrific dish to rely on when company comes calling. Just don't tell them how easy it is.


Spicy crumb pork in a pumpkin 
Fenzheng nangua zhong  粉蒸南瓜盅 
Hunan
Serves 6 to 8 as part of a multicourse meal, 4 as a main dish

Pork and marinade:
14 to 16 ounces pork butt (i.e., shoulder), pork ribs, or other fatty meat (see headnotes and Tips)
6 to 8 fresh Chinese black mushrooms
1 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1½ tablespoons finely chopped ginger
2 tablespoons fermented black beans (douchi), coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons Sichuan style hot bean sauce (la doubanjiang)
1½ tablespoons sweet wheat sauce (tianmianjiang)
2 teaspoons sugar

A wedge of autumn flavors

1 tablespoon soy sauce
2 tablespoons roasted sesame oil
3 to 8 tablespoons fresh peanut or vegetable oil

Pumpkin and rice:
1 largish kabocha squash or other tasty pumpkin (about 8 to 9 inches in diameter; see Tips)
1 cup Rice Crumbs (double the recipe); spices in the crumb optional

1. Rinse the meat and pat dry with paper towels. Cut the meat or ribs (including all the fat) into pieces about 2 x ½ x ½ inches in size; if the ribs are slightly longer, that's all right as long as they will fit easily into the pumpkin. Clean the mushrooms, remove and discard the stems, and break the caps into halves or quarters, depending upon their size.

2. Mix the marinade in a medium work bowl; taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more hot bean sauce or other ingredients to fit your taste and menu and guests. Add the meat and mushrooms to the bowl, toss, and let the meat soak in there while you prepare the rest of the ingredients. (This can be made up to 8 hours in advance.)

3. Wash the pumpkin and pat dry. Cut the top of the pumpkin in a saw-tooth pattern as was done with the watermelon a few weeks ago; the bottom edge of the lid should be no lower than a quarter of the pumpkin's height. (This means if the pumpkin is 6 inches high, make your lowest edge on the lid no more than 1½ inches from the stem.) Remove the lid, scoop out the seeds and gunk, and you're done. (The pumpkin can be prepared a day or two in advance; just place it in a plastic bag and refrigerate.) Prepare the Rice Crumbs, too. (These can be made weeks in advance; just store in a covered jar in a cool area.)

4. Prepare a deep steamer (see Tips) and bring a couple inches of water to boil in the steamer. Pour the Rice Crumbs into the marinating pork and toss well. Place the coated pork in a heatproof bowl that fits easily in the steamer. Steam the pork for about an hour, or until the meat is tender and the rice is fluffy and flavorful; remove the pork from the steamer, taste it again, and adjust the seasoning (see Tips).

Tie twine around pumpkin & plate

5. Layer the hot steamed pork in the pumpkin; it should fit snugly, but don't smash the pork down. If you have too much or the pumpkin is too small, that's all right: just use this pork to either refill the pumpkin later on or save it for lunch tomorrow. Place the lid on the pumpkin and place it on a heatproof plate that is about the same size as the pumpkin. Then, tie kitchen twine around the pumpkin (see picture on the right) and plate so that the twine securely holds the pumpkin in place. 

6. Add more water to your steamer, bring it again to a boil, and then steam the pumpkin for no more than 20 minutes; check it after 15 minutes. If the skin and flesh can be easily pierced, it's done. Remove it from the heat. You may either serve the pumpkin immediately or let it cool down so that you can refrigerate covered it overnight.

Tips

Any nice cut of pork is perfect for this recipe, so see what looks good to you. Again, choose something that has a good ratio of fat to lean; about 1:3 is very nice. If you select ribs, have the butcher saw them into pieces no longer than 2 or 3 inches. Then, cut them apart so that each bone is surrounded by meat and fat. And by the way, for some strange reason "pork butt" comes from the shoulder of a pig, not its hind quarters. Don't ask me why. 

Tie and steam the pumpkin

As with any rice crumb dish, fat is a very important component to its success. That is why tasting the meat once it is finished steaming is so necessary. Taste the meat with special attention, then, to not only the seasonings but how it feels in your mouth. It should have a creamy texture, and the meat should practically melt on your tongue.

The size of the squash really is determined by the size of your steamer. So, measure what you have and choose accordingly. I use a deep pasta pot with a perforated insert. It's certainly not what the manufacturer had in mind, but it works perfectly!

As you can see, this dish can be made over several days, if you like. This makes it great for fancy dinners when your stress level is already in the red.