Marbled tea eggs

I have to say, I was truly flabbergasted this week to read these lines on Tastebook: 

"Carolyn Phillips’s exhaustive study of Chinese food culture is a thing of legend" and "Each of the 300 recipes [in All Under Heaven] features a detailed headnote, and the author’s... illustrations tell the story visually — in a sort of Wall Street Journal meets Lucky Peach way." 

Writer Matt Robard did a wonderful job of understanding and explaining both All Under Heaven and The Dim Sum Field Guide in his article, "How To Do Dim Sum Right in 5 Dishes," and I thank him and Tastebook for this from the bottom of my heart. 

And my gratitude to all of you who stopped by to see me at the LDEI Literary Feast yesterday. What a wonderful day and what a lovely way to catch up with old friends... and new ones, too!

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Marbled tea eggs are some of the most beautiful things you can set on a plate, bar none. They look like exquisite porcelain orbs, with the crazing on the glaze ranging from the palest beige to deep mahogany. And, when done right, the flavors seep down into the eggs (see the last picture below), permeating the whites with savory whiffs of soy sauce and aromatics, so that each bite is pure pleasure.

I first had tea eggs long ago in Taiwan, where they are incredibly popular. Some even think that they are part of Taiwan’s delectable cuisine, but these were introduced to the island back in 1949, when the Nationalists arrived with all their great chefs and fine home cooks in tow.

Almost too beautiful to eat

Shanghainese hallmarks like good soy sauce, flavorful tea leaves, Shaoxing rice wine, punchy spices, lots of green onions and ginger, a touch of sugar, and some tangerine peel make this East China source unmistakable. You can vary the seasonings to suit your heart’s content (and the balance of your meal), of course, as shown below, to create your own personal masterpieces.

One thing I’ve discovered after eons of making tea eggs is that the wine and the tangerine peel are vital components. It must be the acid in them that allows all of those flavors to work their way down through the cracks in the shells, for without them, I’ve found that the seasonings stay stubbornly near the surface. You can use either home-dried tangerine peel or Cantonese aged peel for this – both are tasty and both work well, so use whatever is easiest. (See the tip below for directions on making your own dried tangerine peel.)

Ready to chill

Cantonese aged tangerine peel, I must admit, has an almost heady fragrance, very perfume-y and lush, so if you find it in a good herbalist’s store, do snap it up for this and other dishes that I’ve talked about here and in All Under Heaven. These peels are very dark and – when the food gods are smiling on you – will be tied up in little stacks with bright red string. They should not be hard, but rather leathery. Store them in a tightly closed container in the pantry, where they will stay tasty for a long time because – after all they are aged.

If you are a sucker for pork, soak one of the petals (they usually come as whole peels that are split into thirds, and one of those thirds is what I call a “petal”) in warm water, then use a spoon to scrape off the whitish pith, which can be bitter. Chop the peel finely and use it and a good bit of finely chopped fresh ginger to season a pork patty, as in the recipe for Steamed Minced Pork with Salted Fish on page 205 of AUH (eliminate the fish, of course, as otherwise you won’t taste the tangerine.)

Anyway, back to those eggs. Use older eggs, if you can, as they will peel better. Set refrigerated eggs in a pan of warm water to get rid of the chill, as you don’t want to surprise the eggs into bursting. I have a whole bunch of tips on making the perfect boiled egg here, so check that out if you’re interested.

These tea eggs really are an indelible part of the Taiwanese culinary landscape now, though, and lady street hawkers will often sit with a bucket full of these and tiny braised land snails at the side of the road, working their metal spoons down into the snails so that they crunch against each other to let you know what they are selling.

Prick the shells to release the air

My favorite story about these egg sellers came from one guy I knew who was deep in Taiwan’s tropical jungles on a practice mission with the army. His company had clambered up and down hills for what had seemed forever. Deep in a green grove, they paused before working their way forward on their bellies toward their target. 

All was quiet, not a bird was heard. Then, suddenly they heard a woman right behind them say loudly, “Elder Brother Soldiers, you want some tea eggs?” He swears they all leaped a foot into the air, and lucky for that lady the safeties on their rifles were on. But how she snuck up on them while lugging a big bucket of eggs forever remained a mystery to him.

Tea eggs

Cháyè dàn 茶葉蛋

Shanghai & Taiwan
Makes 18 eggs

18 medium eggs, the smaller the better, at least a week or two old, and preferably organic and free range

Water, as needed

½ cup / 120 cc regular soy sauce

½ cup / 120 cc Shaoxing rice wine

2 tablespoons agave syrup, or 1 piece of rock sugar about the size of 2 cherries

Stir the eggs to center the yolks

¼ cup loose tea leaves (I like oolong, but just about any green or black tea works well here, too)

6 slices fresh ginger

3 whole green onions

3 star anise

1 (2-inch / 5-cm) piece of aged tangerine peel, or one strip of home-dried peel

1 tablespoon whole Sichuan peppercorns

(Other spices you can use instead of or in addition to these are fennel, dried licorice root, stick cinnamon, whole black peppers... whatever you like)

1. Start this at least 3 days before you plan to eat them, as they need time to slowly cook and then soak in the sauce. Prick the rounded end of each egg with a tack or pin, as this will allow the air in that cushion to escape, rather than crack the shell. If the eggs are chilled, cover them in a pan of warm water for an hour or two to remove the chill. Then, bring the pan slowly to a boil, stirring occasionally to center the yolks. When the water has come to a boil, the whites will be set, so you can stop stirring. Simmer them for around 5 to 6 minutes – they will cook longer in Step 4, so don’t worry about them being done at this point. Drain the eggs and cover with cool water.  

Make a luscious braising liquid

2. When the eggs are cool enough to handle easily, use the bottom of a tablespoon to evenly smack them all over, about 6 times per egg is right. You want to keep the shells intact, so don’t hit them hard, but just enough to dent them up a bit and create that marbling.

3. Add the rest of the ingredients to the pan – in fact, a crockpot is really good for this dish, since it will take care of business for the rest of the recipe, but a saucepan will also work just fine. Place the eggs in there, and then cover them with water. Bring the pan or crockpot to a boil and then lower to a bare simmer. Cook the eggs with the lid off for a couple of hours in a saucepan, or overnight in the crockpot. Adjust the seasoning after this time with whatever you think is needed. Don’t add more water to the pan unless absolutely necessary, because you want the flavors to concentrate, which means that you want no more than 1 cup / 240 cc of liquid remaining in the pan.

The flavors will permeate the whites

4. Let the eggs and sauce cool to room temperature, and then chill them in a covered container for at least 2 days and up to about 5. Just before serving, peel the eggs. I like to rinse them in the sauce to remove any tiny bits of shell, but don’t soak them in the sauce, as this will erase the lovely patterns. These eggs can then be sliced in half or in wedges, or even served whole for things like picnics. Some people like to heat the eggs up before they peel them, while others like them chilled, and still others prefer room temperature. They’re all good.

Tip

To dry your own tangerine peel, scrub the tangerine thoroughly, wipe it off, and then peel off the skin in a continuous strip. Hang it up in a dry area, and it’s ready when the peel is hard. Store in a closed container.

Chilled sour plum infusion with osmanthus blossoms

My first glass of Chilled Sour Plum Infusion, or suanmei tang, came my way on a ridiculously hot, sultry late summer afternoon in Taipei, the kind of day that the Chinese call qiu laohu, or autumn tiger.

It was so hot out that even the cicadas had forgotten how to trill, and for some stupid reason I was walking down the street and finding it increasingly difficult to breathe and keep my eyes open at the same time.

The sidewalks were practically vibrating in the heat, and even the normally bustling downtown street corners were empty of all but the bravest hawkers. I desperately needed somewhere dark and cool to hide and something dark and cool to drink.

Passing by a sweets shop, I noticed someone downing a big glass of reddish liquid with absolute relish, the beads of condensation mingling with the sweat on his hands. Ah, I thought, that is exactly what I need.

Mr. Yao using an old style scale

I swung the door open and was greeted by a blast of cold air and shouts of welcome. My red face, bedraggled look, and soggy clothes must have been more than a bit scary, because as soon as a stepped inside, a wide-eyed shop girl said, "Help yourself" and pointed to a refrigerated case on the other side of the shop, which was crammed with icy homemade foods and drinks.

Sticking my head as far into the refrigerator as physically possible, I asked, "What's this?" and held up a sealed plastic glass of whatever the other person had been enjoying. "Suanmei tang," said the shop girl, adding, "It's our own secret recipe."

I thought, "Sour plums? Those insanely puckery boluses? In a drink? Yuck." But then was not the time to be picky. So I summoned up my few remaining synapses and forged ahead with my line of questioning: "Is it really, really tart?" "No, it's sweet, but it's made with sour plums. It's really, really good." "Ring her up, then," I mumbled, as I handed over a few coins and prepared for my first foray into the strange-sounding but persuasively cold and wet beverage.

Whacking a straw into the plastic cover, I sucked down a mouthful and swallowed before even tasting it, scared to even let it hit my taste buds. I was just too thirsty and hot. But halfway through the glass the flavors started to filter up through my nose and echo down my throat. Oh yes, she was right... it was good. It was better than good -- it was amazing, refreshing, and crazily delicious!

Plums, hawthorn, licorice & jamaica

Icy cold without any ice cubes to dilute the complex flavors, there were scents of fruit and flower in the darkly amber liquid along with an underlying taste of something woody. Sweet and salty and sour, it was unlike anything I had ever tasted. Completely sophisticated and amazingly refreshing. And boy, was it addictive.

I drank a second glass a bit more slowly, lingering over the perfume that filled my mouth and nose with each sip and finally started to feel ever-so-slightly human again.

Hm, a secret recipe, I thought. Why is there always a secret recipe involved?

I definitely tasted licorice root, and knew for a fact that sour plums were involved, so I wandered a few storefronts down to a herbalist's shop that also was very thoughtfully air conditioned and asked the guy in charge if I could get the makings for suanmei tang. "Of course!" he said cheerfully, and wrapped up a bunch of deliriously scented herbs that he graciously identified. He even told me how much sugar and water to use. Not much of a secret after all, I'm afraid...

So sour you don't want to eat as is. Honest.

Almost any good Chinese supermarket will have the fixings for this traditional Beijing-style drink and will even have it prepared as a concentrate in a bottle, but your best bet is always a herbalist shop where the ingredients are at their best. The plums, hawthorn fruits, licorice root, and osmanthus blossoms will all be wonderfully fresh and aromatic that way, but you can usually only find the osmanthus blossom syrup in busy Chinese supermarkets. 

If you can find an unsprayed sweet osmanthus (Osmanthus fragrans, which some people refer to as "sweet olive") bush in your area, it's not at all hard to collect the blossoms in autumn when they bloom and then add them to a thick sugar syrup to create your very own guihua jiang.

The following recipe makes a concentrate that is easy to store in the refrigerator for a few days during the hot summer months. 

Chilled sour plum infusion with osmanthus blossoms 
Guihua suanmei tang 桂花酸梅湯 
Beijing

Makes 4 cups infusion

3 or 4 sour dried black plums (suanmei)

Small handful sliced dried hawthorn fruits (shanzha pian)

Small handful sliced dried licorice root (gancao)

Small handful dried jamaica flowers (luoshenhua), optional

4 cups filtered water

2 hunks of rock sugar (the size of walnuts), or to taste; or, use agave syrup to taste 

Sliced hawthorn, also sour

2 tablespoons dried osmanthus blossoms (guihua) plus ¼ teaspoon sea salt, or 2 tablespoons osmanthus blossom syrup (guihua jiang)

1. Place the plums, hawthorn fruits, licorice root, and optional jamaica flowers in a sieve and rinse them well under running water. Shake them dry and place them in a 2-quart saucepan. Pour 4 cups filtered water over the dry ingredients and let them soak for at least an hour to plump them up.

2. Bring the pot to a full boil, and then lower the heat to a gentle simmer for about 1 hour. Add the rock sugar and optional salt, and simmer the infusion until the sugar melts; taste and add more if you want. Add either the osmanthus blossoms and salt or osmanthus syrup to the hot infusion so that the flavors can steep together, and then let the infusion come to room temperature.  

3. Chill it overnight to allow the flavors to develop. Strain and add enough ice water to make 4 cups, or to taste. Serve icy cold without any ice.

Tips

I'm incredibly proprietary and proud of this recipe because if you look around online, there aren't any good suanmei tang recipes in English or even in Chinese!

Jamaica and licorice

Once you get the basics down, feel free to improvise. Some people like cured Cantonese tangerine peel (chenpi) in here (get that at a Chinese herbalist's, too), and it's definitely delicious. But if you do that, take the jamaica flowers out. The reason is that each of these ingredients needs room to maneuver in the liquid, and if there are too many, they just jostle with each other and eventually cancel each other out to a large extent. At least, that's been my experience.

A Western but lovely twist is to use chilled carbonated water to top off the glasses at the end.

I keep on saying "without any ice." There's a reason for that: ice dilutes the drink. You don't want that here. At all. Trust me. Chill the heck out of the infusion, serve it in small glasses if the weather is sweltering, and keep the infusion at the ready in a thermos or a covered pitcher. There is a definite WOW factor to this drink that is impossible to describe. It's definitely not lemonade or ice tea. Once diluted, the magic just fizzles.

Dried and syrupy osmanthus

Use rock sugar and rock sugar only here, rather than white sugar. Regular sugar turns sour in the mouth, while rock sugar stays sweet. I don't know why. But it's night and day, really.

If you have a garden, and you live in a temperate climate, consider growing some Chinese plants like Osmanthus fragrans and Chinese jujubes (Chinese dates) and so forth. It's amazing the number of Chinese plants that can be grown here in California, for example. Check with your local garden center or university. Plus, you get the added delight of the divine scent of Osmanthus in full bloom, which the Chinese held as one of the most refined of all floral aromas. Smell it fresh and you'll understand.