Homemade osmanthus blossom syrup

One of the almost indefinably delicious aromas in classical Chinese cookery is the perfumed essence of osmanthus blossoms, aka sweet olive (I guess because the leaves look a bit like an olive's). 

Like so much of what goes on in Chinese kitchens, I’m astonished that few people ever even heard of this, much less tried it.

You sometimes can find osmanthus blossom syrup in Chinese grocery stores, but it’s not a given. 

Plus, the quality has seriously deteriorated over the years, for I can taste chemical undertones in many of them nowadays. Plus, the labels say things like “rock sugar” or “honey,” and I seriously doubt it.

Dried osmanthus blossoms

Plus (and here’s the big giveaway), it’s all syrup with relatively few blossoms. 

This translates to little flavor, probably an overload of salt, and more than likely a big old helping of corn syrup.

But I’m here to tell you that you can make this at home with a minimum of effort. Like so many preserved things, it does take a bit of patience while you wait for time to work its magic. And so, do what I do and make a double or triple batch so that you can indulge in one jar while the rest sits quietly in the dark.

Your obligatory closeup

Now, where do you get osmanthus blossoms? The best source is a busy, reputable Chinese herbal shop.

Dealers in pretty much every Chinese herb and spice, these traditional stores – often handed down from generation to generation – take pride in the quality of their wares. 

They’ll usually also offer you a sniff of whatever you’re buying, if you ask nicely, so that you can be assured that you’re getting the best. As with good stores everywhere, repeat customers get treated with love, so cultivate your relationships here.

You can also plant a couple of osmanthus trees and/or bushes in your yard if you have the space. They live forever and are covered with magnificent sprays of white or yellow blossoms in autumn. 

Portrait with rock sugar

The fragrance is astounding, and I usually find these plants by following my nose, rather than looking for the flowers. If you are lucky enough to hunt someone down with a prolific tree who is also incredibly generous (another reason to grow your own), you will be rewarded with the most delicious syrup ever. In fact, what you'll end up with is not really syrup per se, but rather blossoms soaked in syrup, which translates to a real wallop of flavor. (Guihua jiang is sometimes called osmanthus jam, but it's not really jam, either. Concoction? Infusion? Bottled nirvana? Edible perfume?)

I’ve done something a tad unusual here to amp up the flavors a bit, since even the best herbalist shops don’t always have really aromatic blossoms for sale. 

What I do is this: when the syrup has been steamed for 45 minutes or so, and I’ve stirred in the honey, I take a tiny taste. If it needs a bit of oomph, in goes a touch of St. Germain liqueur.

Just steam these together

St. Germain takes its aroma from elderberry flowers, another one of my favorites, and another easily grown plant. 

If you love this liqueur, you can turn it into cocktails, as well as use it to flavor things like cakes and ices. Plus, that bottle looks just so darned pretty…

By the by, I'm kind of guessing that this sauce hails from Zhejiang.

My problem has been that guihua jiang is used in many of the more elegant banquet cuisines of China - especially in the north and east - but the osmanthus blossom has such pride of place in Zhejiang's deliciously aromatic dishes with their subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) sweet vibrations, that I'd place my money on Hangzhou or someplace like that.

Solid blossoms, solid flavor

You'll find lots of uses for this on this blog (just use the Search box on the right), as well as in All Under Heaven. This recipe is simply spectacular.

Osmanthus blossom syrup

Zìzhì guìhuā jiàng 自製桂花醬

Zhejiang (probably)

Makes about 8 ounces | 125 ml

½ cup | 30 g dried osmanthus blossoms

30 g yellow rock sugar (about the size of a small chicken egg)

¾ teaspoon sea salt

6 tablespoons | 90 ml pale honey (like clover)

2 tablespoons | 30 ml St. Germain liqueur, optional

Secret ingredient

1. Rinse the blossoms and place them in a heatproof bowl. Top them with the rock sugar and salt, and then steam them for about 45 minutes, or until the sugar has more or less disappeared. (Any small chunks will eventually dissolve as the sauce sits.) Remove the bowl from the steamer and let it cool down until you can handle it easily.

2. Add the honey and optional liqueur. Mix the sauce thoroughly, taste, and adjust with more salt, liqueur, or honey as desired. 

3. Scrape the sauce into a sterile jar (around 8-ounces | 125 ml), cover, label and date the jar, and set it aside in a dark pantry for as long as you can stand it, as the flavors develop over time.

Beijing's watermelon soup

Hello all, back again to posting after a long hiatus while I was writing up and illustrating what I hope will be some interesting stuff for the upcoming Lucky Peach issue on Chinatown!

Today (and the next post's) topic is just perfect for these dog days of summer: watermelon. 

Now, you might assume that when you finish connecting the dots between Chinese cuisine and watermelon, you are going to find yourself either in the tropical south or the deserts in the far west. But after looking at all of my tattered old cookbooks from China, I've come to realize that while watermelon is enjoyed all over the country -- and Xinjiang really does produce some great melons and grapes -- the watermelon is beloved as an ingredient in one place and one place only: the far north.

I know, bizarre. But today's recipe for a slightly thickened and chilled watermelon soup has elegance written all over it, with its gentle sprinkle of dried osmanthus flowers and a dollop of syrup made from those same blossoms adding a depth and fragrance to the mix. It has refined simplicity that is the hallmark of some of the palace's best desserts, so I wouldn't be surprised if it in fact had is origins in the imperial kitchens.

Round and ripe

Traditionally, the watermelon is juiced before being cooked with agar and some water to slightly thicken the mixture, with a bit of sugar to heighten the flavor. But I've found that this is truly excellent if the watermelon is left raw and only enough sugar is added to make the melon flavor pop. Of course, you can cook it, if you prefer.

Nowadays, when excellent varieties of watermelon are available seedless, making this dish is even easier. And if you have a blender, then this dish can be put together with very little effort indeed. (I got a ten-pound melon for this picture on the right, and it had enough flesh and juice to make about double this recipe. )

The only relatively unusual ingredients are the dried blossoms and the osmanthus syrup. As I've noted elsewhere, you can usually buy dried osmanthus in Chinese herbal shops (and in some good Chinese tea stores), while the syrup will be on the shelves of a well-stocked Chinese grocery store. In case you can't find these, don't worry, as the soup will still be terrific; just add a tiny bit of salt to cut the sweet edge.

Fit for an empress

If you are feeling particularly creative, you could make this into a Yin Yang Soup, using red and yellow watermelons instead of the hot nutty soups of winter; just be sure to chill the soups well so that they are thick enough to hold their shape without bleeding into the other color.

Chilled watermelon soup 
Xigua lao 西瓜烙 
Beijing
Makes about 7 cups and serves 6 to 8

2 packets (5 tablespoons) gelatin or powdered agar
2 to 4 tablespoons sugar
1 cup boiling filtered water
5 to 6 pound ripe seedless watermelon of any color, chilled
2 tablespoons osmanthus syrup (guihua jiang), or a bit of sea salt to taste
Dried osmanthus flowers for garnish, optional

Chill the soup

1. Mix the gelatin and 2 tablespoons sugar together in an 8-cup heatproof bowl. (Mixing them helps cut down on the gelatin lumping when it hits hot water.) Pour in the boiling water and immediately stir the gelatin with a small whisk until both the sugar and gelatin are completely dissolved. 


2. Wash the melon and pat dry. Cut it open and scoop out enough of the flesh into a blender to make 6 cups of loose watermelon puree. Pour the puree into the bowl, add the syrup or salt, and stir thoroughly. Taste and add more sugar, if needed. Cover the bowl and chill; stir the soup occasionally with a whisk as it chills to keep the soup smooth.

3. To serve, ladle the soup into individual bowls and sprinkle with the dried osmanthus flowers.