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.

Cucumbers with eggs

Once in a while you get a combination of ingredients in a Chinese dish that sounds completely odd. This is definitely one of them. 

The main reason Westerners find even the idea of mixing cucumbers with eggs strange is that we almost invariably eat our cucumbers either raw or pickled. But in China, cucumbers quite as often as not are cooked to a certain degree, for these are indeed members of the squash family. Refreshing squashes, yes, but squashes nevertheless.

My first run-in with cooked cucumbers was in Taipei where they were served in a soup. I hadn’t a clue what was floating around in there among the tiny pork meatballs until a friend informed me that they were in fact peeled, fat cukes. They were veggies that had gone a bit to seed on the vine, but were then rescued for the soup course. 

Anyone who has ever grown cucumbers will attest that you almost invariably end up with a couple hiding long enough to turn into monsters. Until I had traveled to Taiwan, I usually tossed these onto the compost heap. But the Chinese are a practical people who tend to find a way to make just about anything not only edible, but delicious. 

And they are right on the money with overly mature cucumbers: when peeled and seeded, their flesh turns out to be firm and just barely fibrous enough to withstand a hot bath. So next time you are faced with a yellowing cucumber, julienne some ginger, fry up some little meatballs, and make a soup with that cubed up squash. It’s actually extraordinarily good that way.

But back to cukes when they are at their absolute prime. Chinese-style cucumbers are called xiăohuángguā 小黃瓜, or "little cucumbers," because they are around 5 to 6 inches / 12 to 15 cm long. They are usually sold as Persian or Japanese cucumbers in Bay Area grocery stores. These are sometimes called "seedless" because the seeds are so undeveloped as to be negligible, at least when they are harvested correctly. The skins are also tender, dark green, and only slightly spiny.

My friend Chiaying was gathering the last of her homegrown "little" cucumbers the other day, and I happened to stop by just as she was wondering what to do with all of them. That counts as exceptional good luck in my book. Some were eaten raw right on the spot, as little can improve a cuke fresh off the vine. But I also took a big bag home and started fantasizing about what I could do with this lovely bounty.

The cukes, salted and squeezed

And then I remembered that I had noticed this particular dish on a menu in San Francisco a couple days earlier. I didn't order it at the time because few people make it well, for the eggs and cucumbers need to mesh juuuust right. I’ve had it with the cucumbers appearing as wide slices or fat batons, but in those cases the eggs just slithered off to one side because there was nothing there for them to grab onto. Also, restaurant egg dishes are usually tasteless, for they are generally neither of the greatest quality nor cooked with care. And so I like to make this dish myself. 

In China, eggs are considered a rich ingredient because of their butteriness, their depth of flavor, and their silky texture. That whole Chinese concept of yin and yang gets a bit of a workout here in this dish because cucumbers are considered bland, and so their nature gets emphasized when they are paired with eggs. Also, with a combination like this, there is soft against crunch, yellow against green, cooked against fresh. 

Wonderful aromatics also can be found wandering around in here to perk things up and turn this into something really lovely. I like garlic and green onions to bounce against my senses, and you can add some chopped fresh chilies in there, if you are so inclined.

The next thing that has to be addressed here is the proper way to prep the cucumbers. Like I noted earlier, the eggs will happily slide off of the cucumbers if given half a chance, so you have to get creative here. 

Cut them into slivers

My contribution to this homestyle classic is to cut them into relatively small julienne – not shreds, mind you, which would just dissolve into mush when heated, but large enough to handle a quick turn in the wok – and then lightly salting them. I've never heard of anyone else doing this, but that last step releases most of the juices and also roughs up the surfaces just enough to give the eggs a bit of a grip. Another benefit is that the cucumbers are then seasoned all the way through and so offer punchy little sparks with each bite.

And now we get back to the eggs and how to prepare them. Simply put: don’t overcook them. 

The best way to achieve this is to first quickly toss the cucumbers with the aromatics over high heat and then immediately empty them into a bowl. Only then should you cook the eggs over much lower heat. This will give you fat, yellow curds that are pleasant to look at and even more pleasant to eat, as they will be soft and tender – the perfect contrast to the slightly crisp and still very fresh cucumbers. Magic.

This is great over rice, wrapped in a flour tortilla, served with congee, or made as an accompaniment to toast.

Cucumbers and eggs

Xiăohuángguā chăo dàn 小黃瓜炒蛋

Northern China

Serves 4

4 seedless cucumbers (like Japanese or Persian)

1 teaspoon sea salt

6 tablespoons / 90 ml peanut or vegetable oil, divided in half

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

Your main ingredients

1 green onion, green parts only, finely chopped

1 fresh red chile, seeded and finely chopped, optional

3 large or medium eggs, lightly beaten (free range, organic ones are highly recommended)
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Rinse the cucumbers, pat them dry, and remove the stems and blossom ends. Cut the unpeeled cucumbers into 2-inch / 5 cm lengths (more or less), and then into strips about ¼ inch / 5 mm wide on the skin side. Place them in a colander set in the sink, toss well with the salt, rub them a bit with the salt to rough them up (pretend like you are washing your hands with them), and then let the strands soften slightly for around 30 minutes. Squeeze small handfuls of the cucumbers to release as much of the moisture as possible and then place them in a work bowl.

2. Set a wok over medium-high heat, and add half of the oil to the wok when it is hot. Swirl the oil around and add the garlic, onions, and optional chiles. As soon as they smell delicious, toss in the cucumbers, sprinkling them in so that they don’t clump up. Raise the heat to high. Toss these together just until the cucumbers are barely heated through but the garlic isn't browned, and then return everything to the work bowl.

Fluffy, soft eggs

3. Lower the heat to medium-low and set the wok back on the stove. Swirl the remaining oil into the wok, and then add the eggs and pepper. Cook the eggs slowly, adjusting the heat as necessary, so that they congeal rather than fry. Stir them gently to encourage the eggs to form fluffy clouds, and as soon as just a slick of raw egg remains, gently toss in the cucumbers to combine. Taste and adjust seasoning - you probably won't need more salt, but use your own judgment. Serve immediately.

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.

Silky, sensuous, savory custard from Shanghai

This is comfort food of the highest order. Yes, it’s simple, straightforward, inexpensive, and very delicious, but it is also so silky and cosseting that I feel like I’m being pampered whenever I see it on the table, even if I was the one who made it.

Here are my secrets to making this perfect the first time around:

First, locate some small, fresh clams, not much larger than an inch (2.2 cm) across. You want them to be tender enough so that you don’t have to wrestle with them, either in your mouth or on your plate. You can double the amount of clams, if you like.

Second, use a combination of the clam juices and chicken stock to add a vibrant xianwei undertone to the light flavors of the shellfish and eggs. Strain the clam juice, as there almost always will be fine sand from the clams in there. Just to be absolutely sure that no grit sneaks into your dish, let the clam juice cool and settle so that you only have to deal with the top layer of clear liquid.

Third, always strain the egg mixture as you pour it into the bowl. This makes the texture even and smooth, with no wobbly bits sitting around half cooked or looking weird. Straining your custard makes a world of difference.

Fourth, opening up the steamer halfway through cools off the custard just a bit so that the edges don’t become overcooked. What happens is that the interior keeps on cooking, so this little step helps to even out the texture. Be sure not to steam the eggs past the point that they have firmed up, as otherwise holes will form in the custard and the texture will harden. It will still taste good, but you will no longer have that divine texture.

Smallish clams

If you don’t like clams, try some fresh mussels or shrimp or cubes of a mild fish in here. Baby peas would be pretty in here, too, and provide a nice bit of textural contrast.

The ginger and ginger oil are my own contributions to this classic. Feel free to use fried green onions and their oil, toasted sesame oil, or whatever appeals to you and complements your menu.

Clams in custard

Gélí zhēng dàn  蛤蜊蒸蛋

Shanghai 

Serves 4 to 6

12 or so small clams (see headnote)

Water, as needed

¼ cup/15g finely chopped fresh ginger

½ cup/100g peanut or vegetable oil

Unsalted or lightly salted chicken stock, as needed

½ to 1 teaspoon fish sauce

3 large eggs

1. Scrub the clams and place them in a small pan. Add about an inch of water, cover, and place the pan on high heat. When it comes to a full boil, lower the heat to medium and simmer the clams covered for around 3 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat. Pluck out any clams that have already opened and place them in a heatproof bowl. Return the pan to the heat and continue to simmer the remaining clams for another minute or two, until all of them have opened up. If any remain shut at this point, be sure and discard them – do not force them open, as they were dead before they were cooked. Drain all of the cooking liquid through a very fine meshed strainer into a heatproof measuring cup. Add just enough chicken stock to make a full cup of liquid. Stir in the fish sauce to taste.

2. Clean out the saucepan, wipe it very dry, and place both the ginger and oil in it before setting it over medium heat. Adjust the heat as needed to maintain a very gentle bubbling around the ginger, as you want it to slowly release its juices before frying into a toasty brown. Drain the oil through a clean, dry strainer into a heatproof bowl and reserve the toasted ginger.

Simple perfection

3. About 5 minutes before serving, set up a steamer and bring a couple of inches of water to a full boil, then reduce the heat to medium high. While the steamer is heating up, lightly beat the eggs before mixing in in the clam juice/chicken stock. Pour the egg mixture through a strainer into a shallow, heatproof bowl and discard any gelatinous bits caught in the mesh. Set the bowl in the steamer and steam it over medium-high heat for 3 minutes.

4. Carefully remove the bowl and arrange the clams in their shells inside the custard. Sprinkle all of the toasted ginger over them, as well as around 2 tablespoons of the ginger oil. Return the custard to the steamer and steam it for another 3 to 5 minutes, or until the center is barely set; it will continue to cook in the residual heat, so be very careful not to overcook it. Serve immediate with a wide spoon.