White cut chicken from Guangdong

The Chinese name and its English translation do little to express the absolute level of succulence in this dish. So, that might be the reason why the inimitable southern Chinese way of poaching chicken has remained such a secret. But that is all about to change…

Instead of actually cooking the bird in water over an open flame, some chef long ago probably was interrupted while boiling a chicken, and he or she turned off the stove and left the bird to sit in the pot for an hour or so. When the chef came back and looked inside, the chicken was done to juicy perfection, and White Cut Chicken was born. Or, at least, that’s my explanation.

The first time I had this in a Cantonese-style restaurant in Hong Kong, it blew me away. I am not a huge fan of breast meat because it is just so dry and flavorless, and it feels like penance to eat it. So I usually aim for the thighs or back where moistness and flavor reign supreme, graciously letting others chew on the white meat.

Salt the aromatics

But this dish showed me that even the breast can be great if given half a chance. Here, the meat is not cooked to pure whiteness, but rather has the most subtle shade of shell pink imaginable. You see, chicken breast – like that of a duck – is best when it still is soft. But unlike duck breast, which is actually dark meat and is superb when slightly pink, chicken breast has to be cooked, and hence the dilemma.

What is done here to achieve this perfect balance is to quickly boil the chicken for 10 minutes, and then let the whole bird sit in the covered pot for an hour off the fire. The heat then travels into the center of the chicken, slowly but fully cooking the innermost fibers while not shocking out the juices. It’s genius.

White cut chicken 
Báiqiējī 

白切雞 

Guangdong, Hainan
Serves 8 to 10 as one of many entrées, or 4 as a main entrée

Chicken:

1 whole fryer (about 2½ pounds), organic and free range, if possible

1 ½ tablespoons sea salt

1 tablespoon Cantonese white liquor

Dunking the bird

Boiling filtered water

Ice water

Roasted sesame oil

Dipping sauces:

3 green onions, trimmed

2 inches fresh ginger, peeled

2 teaspoons sea salt

½ cup fresh peanut or vegetable oil

1. Start this recipe at least 10 hours or even a day before you plan to serve it. Rinse the chicken under cool running water, being sure to remove all of the kidneys stuck in the back ribs. While you’re doing this, pluck out any stray pinfeathers and remove any stray viscera and extra fat. Pat the chicken dry with paper towels and place in a medium work bowl. Rub the salt and white liquor all over and inside the chicken. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the chicken marinate in the refrigerator for 8 to 24 hours. Remove it from the fridge about an hour or so before you start to cook.

The ice bath

2. Cook the chicken no more than 8 hours before you want to serve it, as it should not be refrigerated once it’s done. Select a pan that is wide enough to just hold the chicken and tall enough so that the chicken can be covered by at least 3 inches of boiling water. Bring enough water to cover the chicken to boil (have a tea kettle full of extra boiling water, just in case). Lower the chicken carefully into the boiling water, adding more water as necessary to cover it by at least 3 inches. Cover the pot and boil the chicken on high for 10 minutes, and then turn off the heat. Let the chicken sit in the covered pot for 1 hour.

3. Prepare an ice bath that is large enough to hold the chicken, and then place the ice bath next to the pot with the chicken. Gently remove the hot chicken from the stock and lower it into the ice bath. (Reserve the stock for something else, like the Hainan Chicken in the next post.) Roll it around in the ice water until the skin cools and tightens. Drain the chicken well, lightly rub sesame oil all over the skin, and place the chicken on a rimmed plate to cool thoroughly. Cover the chicken lightly and place it in a cool spot, but don’t refrigerate it unless it’s absolutely necessary (i.e., your house is very hot).

4. When the chicken is completely cool, you can prepare the chicken a number of ways. If you are eating it at home with friends and family, I like to serve it whole and let everyone rip into the bird, tearing it apart like cavemen. Traditionally, though, the chicken is chopped into 1-inch wide pieces. If you are serving this at a fancier dinner, you can also remove as many bones as possible without destroying the skin or shape of the chicken; the drumsticks and wings can keep their bones, though, as they are a) hard to bone and b) help make the final dish look like chicken. Then cut each boned piece into ¾ inch wide (or so) pieces, and arrange the meat on a serving platter so that it looks like a complete bird. Place the wings and drumsticks in their appropriate positions and garnish the plate with something, if you like.

My ginger grater

5. Cut the onions as finely as possible and place them in a bowl. Add half of the salt and rub the salt into the onions to make them sweat.

6. Grate the ginger as finely as possible, removing any long fibers, and plate it in a bowl. Add the rest of the salt and rub the salt into the ginger to release its juices.

7. Heat the oil in a wok over high heat, and when it starts to smoke, pour half of it over the onions and the ginger. Lightly stir each bowl, and then serve these alongside the chicken.

Tips

As always, use the best chicken possible, but this is particularly essential in a dish like this where nothing hides the essential quality of the bird.

Some recipes call for the raw bird to come to room temperature before it is poached, but that seems like spreading a welcome mat for all sorts of bacteria to move in and spoil the meat. So, I suggest that you let the chicken just rest outside of the fridge for no more than an hour or two to take off the chilly edge.

Barely done breast meat

I don’t really like chopping up White Cut Chicken because the bones sometimes are still a bit red, and there’s nothing like blood leaking out of the marrow to ruin an appetite. So, I recommend that you just rip the meat off of the bird. It makes for happier eating because there’s no need to pause while working on the bones, and the carcass can then be tossed back in the pot for even more flavor.

Other dipping sauces can be used, but these two are the most traditional pair. The ginger and green onions can even be combined in the same bowl, and that is very good indeed.

Bean curd with preserved eggs Hubei style

Here is yet another one of those incredibly simple yet dazzling combinations from the Yangtze River area, and this also has to be one of my favorite things to eat... but only if it’s done right, as they do in Hubei province.

The one place we always could count on for the best version was a wonderful mid-priced restaurant in downtown Taipei right near book store alley. Fuxingyuan was an unpretentious yet perfect beacon for East Chinese food. We became such regular customers that as soon as we walked in the door, the cook would prepare this dish just the way I liked it – with an extra egg – and it would be set on our table within seconds after we’d been poured hot tea.

Generally referred to as simply pidan doufu, or bean curd with preserved eggs, this stunning contrast in black and white relies completely on the excellence of the ingredients, the balanced ratio of tofu to eggs, and an unobtrusive yet tangy sauce topped with simple greenery. 

Of supreme importance are the bean curd, which has to be the soft, custardy type (nen doufu, or tender tofu), and the eggs, which in the most perfect of all worlds are the kind called songhua, or pine flower, because of the crystalline patterns that form under the shell and tell you that this is one perfect egg, as the whites will be perfectly tender and the yolks just the right balance of solid and smoosh. (There's no guarantee whether you'll end up with pine flowers... it's sort of the luck of the draw, but celebrate if you do.)

Hot sesame oil notching up the flavors

This egg has a bad rap because of its appearance and its touristy names: “thousand-year-old,” “century” or even “millennium” egg. 

I mean, really. They’re not at all old and in fact should be enjoyed while they are relatively fresh, as the eggs dry out if left to their own devices. I call them preserved eggs because of how they are made: fresh duck eggs are coated with a combination of quicklime, ash, clay, salt, and rice hulls, allowed to rest for a couple of weeks or months while the chemicals work their magic, and when opened, the whites will have turned a crystal-clear dark amber, while the yolks are a runny grayish-green.

I do realize that encountering an egg with this sort of coloration the first time around may be startling.  But you’ll find that the whites are actually very much like a gentle aspic, while the creamy centers have a gently yolk flavor with a rich, buttery undercurrent. 

Light refracting through the "white"

A lot of times, eating strange things requires a leap of faith and logic. For example, one time I was having lunch in Taipei with an American friend, Janet, and her young daughter. The little girl was at that very finicky stage, and she immediately was very grossed out by our serving of pidan doufu. So I suggested to little Katie that this was egg jello; to my surprise, she bought it and then just dove in like she ate it every day. 

When we lived in Taiwan, old-fashioned grocers would have at least one big brown urn near the door with yellow dragons running around it, and inside would be these eggs. They were sold still encased in those hard little coffins of nubby clay, and I would wash them off under running water before peeling off the bluish speckled shells, hoping that I’d be rewarded with pine blossoms for my effort. And when I was, there would be three eggs that night.

Bean curd with pine flower preserved eggs 
Sōnghuā pídàn dòufŭ 松花皮蛋豆腐 

Hubei
Serves 4 to 6 as an appetizer

2 or 3 preserved eggs (see Tips)

1 box soft bean curd (see Tips)

Boiling water

1 to 2 tablespoons Sichuan pickled tuber (zhacai)

1 green onion, green leaves only

2 tablespoons coarsely chopped cilantro

½ teaspoon sea salt
1½ teaspoons sugar

1 teaspoon rice or apple vinegar

1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar

Elegant & soothing

6 tablespoons toasted sesame oil

1. Peel the eggs, rinse them gently to remove any tiny bits of shell, and slice them into thin wedges.

2. Bring a small saucepan half full of water to a boil and slip in the soft bean curd; bring the water to a boil again, then discard the water and carefully rinse the hot bean curd under cool tap water. Drain it and place the square on a cutting board. Cut the square lengthwise in half, and then cut it crosswise into thin pieces (about an eighth to a quarter of an inch wide). Use your cleaver to gently lift up the fragile slice and fan them out on a rimmed serving plate. Arrange the sliced eggs on top.

3. Rinse the pickled tuber and chop it very finely. Thinly slice the green onion leaves. Scatter the pickles, green onion, and cilantro over the top of the eggs. Put the salt, sugar, vinegar, and sesame oil in a wok over high until they bubble furiously; taste the sauce and adjust seasoning, if necessary, and then drizzle this over the greens to wilt them. Serve slightly warm.

Tips

Avoid pidan from Mainland China, as I have always found them hard and tasteless. They definitely would work better on a ping pong table than on a dining table. 

Some Taiwanese eggs

Taiwan's pidan are often incredibly good, with the egg whites whisper tender and the yolks soft and runny and dark, rather than the tough ochre centers of Mainland eggs. The brand I've come to enjoy the best packs the eggs in a little yellow cardboard egg crate. They say there's no lead in them and they taste clean. 

I store these eggs in the refrigerator and try to use them within a couple of weeks. Of course, always use common sense when you're dealing with preserved or any other kind of eggs: smell them when you crack them open and look the eggs over carefully. Preserved eggs should not smell like much of anything before you cut them open, since the whites are very bland.

Pidan should also look solid and not have any questionable liquid running around in them, as that's a sign of spoilage. Do keep in mind that if these eggs hang around too long, even with refrigeration, they can dry out. 

So, keep them chilled, and if you haven't dealt with them for a while, open one up the day before you plan to serve them. And if you are a lover of Congee like I am, serve them sliced into wedges in your rice porridge with some crunchy Fried Peanuts – the perfect breakfast or late night snack whenever it's cold outside.

Strangely beautiful

Buy non-GMO, organic bean curd whenever you can. You can use either “soft” or “extra soft” tofu here, but while the extra soft kind will taste very good, it might look a mess, since it tends to fall apart at the merest suggestion of pressure.

That's why the bean curd is quickly blanched in this recipe: to both gently firm it up a bit on the outside, which makes it easier to slice, and also to remove any scent of the packaging.

If you don't have or can't find zhacai in your area, anything crunchy and tart will do, like the Pickled Long Beans we looked at recently.

Different areas of China make their own versions of this classic. In Taiwan, for example, the egg is often served whole on top of a square of tender bean curd, and then either pork floss (rousong) or shaved dried bonito (katsuobushi, which suggests lingering Japanese influence there) are cascaded on top, often with a healthy drizzle of oyster sauce all around instead of the vinegar and hot oil.

The days of wine & tendons

Tendons are just not considered food by way too many people, and that is a crying shame. 

It's such an uphill battle to convince anyone that tendons are delectable when the adjectives usually bandied about around sinews are "tough," "stringy," and "tasteless."

But I think it’s time for a serious change in attitude, one that sees them instead as velvety, luscious, and sexy.

That’s right, I called cow ligaments sexy. And just like anything else having to do with this sort of thing, it all boils down to having slow hands and knowing how to do things right.

You see, beef tendons are sort of like Achilles tendons for enormous quadrupeds, and as a result they are built to push and pull lots of major bones and muscle. Tendons are not wimpy, they’re not greasy, and they are very mildly flavored. In fact, they are nice, blank canvases for whatever tastes you want to decorate them with. And when these huge chunks of gristle are made to surrender to slow heat and moisture… well, you get the picture.

Roe soaking up the oil

In this recipe from Zhejiang just south of the mouth of the Yangtze River, another exotic ingredient is used: dried shrimp roe. 

If you have never tried shrimp roe before, let me be the first to introduce you to something that also can become very, very carnal. This time around, though, it is because the roe turns into a silky mass that smells gently of the sea and turns a beautiful rust red, which in turns sparkles the plain Jane tendons with both color and aromatic excitement.

Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?

Braised tendons with dried shrimp roe 
Xiāzĭ níujīn 蝦籽牛筋

Zhejiang
Serves 4 to 6 as an entree

Tendons:

2 fresh beef tendons (about 1 pound), see Tips

Boiling filtered water

Fresh, cleaned beef tendons

Sauce:

½ cup fresh peanut or vegetable oil

¼ cup dried shrimp roe, see Tips

2 teaspoons finely shredded fresh ginger

2 green onions, trimmed, split, and cut into 1-inch sections

¼ cup Shaoxing rice wine

2 tablespoons regular soy sauce

1 teaspoon fish sauce

2 teaspoons sugar

1 cup boiling filtered water

To finish:

2 green onions, green parts only

2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

Looking like a lamb

1. Rinse the tendons and place them in a pan wide enough to hold them flat. Cover them with boiling water by at least one inch (see Tips), bring the water to a boil again over high heat, and then cover and lower the heat to a slow simmer. Gently cook them until they relax and can be easily pierced with a chopstick, about 3 hours. Discard the liquid, cool the tendons to room temperature, and place in a plastic bag before refrigerating them. (The tendons can be cooked ahead of time up to this point up to 3 days ahead of when you are going to serve them.)

2. Cut the tendons in half lengthwise, and then quarter them lengthwise into strips that are about ½ inch wide all around. Cut these strips into pieces about 1 inch long.

3. Pour the oil into a wok and add the roe. Give the roe a few minutes to absorb most of the oil, and then raise the heat under the wok to medium. Slowly cook the roe until it looks liquid and bubbly, and then add the tendons, ginger, and green onions. Cook these for a few minutes to coat the tendons with the roe. Raise the heat to high and pour in the rice wine. As the wine cooks down, add the soy sauce, fish sauce, sugar, and boiling water. Bring the sauce to a boil and then lower the heat to medium. Cook the tendons, stirring occasionally to keep them from sticking, until almost all of the sauce has been absorbed. Taste and adjust the seasoning.

Cooked & cooled tendon

4. Just before serving, cut the leaves of the green onions into thin diagonal strips and toss them into the hot tendons along with the sesame oil. Toss quickly and serve while the tendons are still hot.

Tips

Tendons are often found in Asian and Latino markets; I get mine at a Korean grocery store where the quality of the meat is particularly high. The tendons should be cleaned, white, and soft if fresh. Frozen ones may be used, too; just defrost them thoroughly.

The tendons will immediately contract into tight balls as the water heats up, and they will be as hard as rocks at this point. They must be slowly simmered for about 3 hours until the tendons completely relax and return to their original size. Because they do contract so tightly, be sure they are covered with boiling water the whole time they are cooking. 

If you have extra cooked tendons, these are superb in Northern-style beef noodle soup; just cut the tendons across the grain into thin slices, add them to the stock, and simmer until they are once again tender.

Cook the roe until it foams

Dried shrimp roe (xiazi 蝦籽) are a bit harder to find, but they usually are stocked by those Chinese stores that specialize in dehydrated seafood, like dried sea cucumbers, abalone, shark fin, scallops, and splayed fish. The roe will either be in a glass canister that the salesperson will weigh out for you or in small plastic packages.

Store the roe in a sealed freezer bag in the freezer, where it will stay tasty for ages.

Sonny Chiba & me

The new and wonderful Swallow Daily magazine just published a lengthy interview with yours truly...

After the success of the Mission Street Food book, McSweeney’s has decided to publish another cookbook, this time with Carolyn Phillips (aka Madame Huang). She plans for the book to be no less than an in-depth look at all the culinary styles of China. Here we speak to her about her life and the experiences that brought her to the enviable position she’s in today. This being Swallow, we also talk about Sonny Chiba, Hello Kitty and Chinese beer.

“My earliest memory of Chinatown was a trip I took to San Francisco with my mom and grandmother. I remember my grandmother rushing me past what she said were opium dens, and being a very curious five-year-old, all I wanted to do then was to wander in there and find out what opium was.”

– Carolyn Phillips

Where did you grow up? What is your heritage?

I grew up in the heart of Silicon Valley back before the tech boom. It was a quiet and lazy sort of neighborhood surrounded by orchards and distinguished mainly by the smell of prunes. On the surface it was an almost Steven Spielberg version of suburbia, but there was also this strange, dark David-Lynch-meets-Peyton-Place undercurrent.

I’m descended from a Puritan mix on one side of the family and a lot of rednecks on the other. This might help explain why my parents got divorced before long.

Did Chinese food and culture play a large part in your childhood?

My mother played mahjong with the Jewish ladies in the neighborhood when she was pregnant with me, and I’m pretty sure something got transmitted to me in utero. This all has to do with the Chinese belief in taijiao, or education of the fetus: the incessant sound of ivory tiles clacking away while I floated around in amniotic fluid must have been imprinted on my tiny brain. I therefore was never entirely comfortable until I found my way to Taiwan, where every alley was filled with the echoes of clattering tiles.

That aside, my earliest memory of Chinatown was a trip I took to San Francisco with my mom and grandmother. I remember my grandmother rushing me past what she said were opium dens, and being a very curious five-year-old, all I wanted to do then was to wander in there and find out what opium was.

How did you come to be so interested in it later on?

I was first interested in Japanese language and culture while still in high school, and being slightly mad, I took courses in both languages at the same time at the University of Hawaii, which really pushed me over the edge. Then, after college, I wanted to actually be able to speak one or the other, and so I applied to language courses in Tokyo and Taipei.

Tokyo was full, Taipei said yes, and my life’s course suddenly changed track.

What was the first authentic Chinese dish that really blew your mind?

Wow, that would have to be a pressed duck dish I had all to myself one evening when my dad told me I could order whatever I wanted at a local Cantonese restaurant. It had crushed almonds and a plum sauce, and I think it was coated in water chestnut flour before being fried. I couldn’t have been more than nine or ten at the time, but I remember being transported by the vivid flavors and textures, by how wonderful it was to be able to slowly savor something like that with no more than a bowl of steamed rice and an endless pot of hot tea, and by the fact it tasted of something glorious that I never ever had eaten before: duck.

Welcome to my Proustian moment.

You live near San Francisco; what are some of your favourite Chinese restaurants there? 

One thing that really distresses me is that there are so many Chinese people in the Bay Area, but there are no great Chinese restaurants here. Some are passably good, like a small Shanghai joint in Oakland, a Sichuan place on Geary in San Francisco, and a dumpy dim sum hall in the city’s Chinatown, but nothing to really recommend. Monterey Park in the Los Angeles area, on the other hand, has much better variety and quality.

As a result, we almost always eat at home.

Do you cook mostly Asian dishes at home? What are some favourites?

Yes, I cook almost exclusively Chinese, both because my husband and I love it and because I’m researching my upcoming cookbook for McSweeney’s, where I am going to be introducing cuisines from every part of China. I’m lucky in that my husband, J. H. Huang, is a passionate and finicky eater, so he never lets me slide.

My favorites change with whatever region I’m working on, but I love anything involved with Sichuan-style chili oil, juicy chicken, sublimely tender meat, super fresh fish, or fresh noodles. Strike that... I’ll eat just about anything that has its roots in China and is authentic.

Last supper menu would have to include mung bean jelly shreds and dry-fried flounder, for sure. But then again, I’ve just started delving once more into the cuisines of Jiangsu and Zhejiang at the mouth of the Yangtze River, and everything there is so divine that I would probably have to apply for a lengthy delay in my sentence as I loosened my belt and then ate through their vast repertoires. And then I’d ask for a reprieve as I worked my way around the rest of China.

If I kept that up, I could live forever.

How did you get published by McSweeney's? Who do you know? How did you get your manuscript to stand out from the millions of others submitted by starving hipsters everywhere?

You know, I am still trying to figure that one out.

I didn’t really know anyone there personally. It was just the luck of the draw, I guess. I’d been turned down by absolutely every other publisher and had gone through three or four agents and had pretty much given up when McSweeney’s suddenly said yes. To say I’m incredibly lucky is both a gross understatement and also a boring cliché, but it’s also very, very true. I just hope I don’t wake up and find this has all been a dream.

How does one put together a winning manuscript? Well, I can only speak for myself here, but I think that you have to a) be very passionate about whatever it is you want to write about, and b) you have to have something new to say. These two seem simple enough on the surface, but what they require is both comprehensive knowledge about a subject and also an innovative way to express your ideas. It doesn’t hurt to be able to write well and fast, and also to love to do nothing better than sit down and write all day even when the sun is shining and everyone wants to go out and play.

As for myself, I am completely and truly happy for the first time in my life. This is what I think everything in my little world has been building up to since, well, forever. I have had an endless list of jobs since I was 13, and some of them eventually were pretty sweet, like working as the chief translator at Taipei’s National Museum of History and National Central Library for five years.

But as wonderful as those positions were, they weren’t careers, and as much as they taught me, they were merely stepping stones, no more than temporary way stations in life, just like everything else. I then worked in the federal and state courts here in California as a professional Mandarin interpreter for over a decade; again, I learned a whole lot and it was interesting, but I didn’t exactly bound out of bed in the morning, ready to start work with a smile on my face.

No, for that, I had to become a food writer.

Is it a dream come true to be published in Lucky Peach or are you all la di da, all in a day's work about it?

It’s a dream, no question about it. When I picked up the first issue of Lucky Peach at a Whole Foods store over a year ago, I was totally blown away. I mean, everything in there was so incredibly on point and fun and informative and provocative and intelligent.

I thought at the time, wouldn’t it be nice one day if… and here it is a year later, and I’m in the fifth issue. It’s unreal.

What is your advice to aspiring food writers who want to get published?

First, be nice to people, since you never know who might end up helping you along the way.

Second, learn all you can every hour of every day, because everything is useful at some time or another. Turn off the TV and Internet, pick up a book that interests you, and see what the author can teach you. Really: read, read, read.

Third, really get to know your stuff, and by that I mean that if you are going to write a book about, say, the cooking traditions of the Hebrides Islands, you had better know everything there is to learn about the cooking traditions of the Hebrides Islands. Not only that, but you should be able to speak and write Gaelic fluently, and you should be spending at least part of your life in the English Channel so that you understand both the people and their culture inside out.

Fourth, learn to write a great proposal. Spend lots of time writing it and figuring out what it is you are planning to do, and be sure and read books on how to write a proposal. Write draft after draft after draft of your proposal; this takes time and patience while you hammer out what it is you want to tell the world.

Once you’ve written that proposal and are satisfied, ask some writer friends to edit your words mercilessly. Once you’ve done that, polish your proposal some more until it shines, and then start to look for a publisher or an agent. Whatever happens, don’t give up, no matter how many people say no, because you only need one person to say yes.

And finally, write like your life depended on it. Write every day. Make it a habit. Learn to make the words work for you. Develop your voice on paper.

If you don’t love this whole process, then find something else to do with your life. Writing is hard, lonely work. But if it is what you love and it is a genuine compulsion, then you’re one of the lucky ones and you’ll do it no matter what obstacles are thrown in your way.

What writers do you enjoy (food, fiction, any genre)?

For cooking, oh boy, the list is enormous. I am a real fangirl of a great triumvirate of Chinese-American women writers from the late sixties and early seventies, back when comprehensive Chinese cookbooks were a true rarity: I’m talking about Irene Kuo, Grace Zia Chu, and the wonderful Florence Lin. The books by these ladies are still as readable and useful today as they were decades ago. I’m especially fortunate that Mrs. Lin is still very much alive and well, and we have become friends. How great is it to know a legend, to meet one of your heroes?

Nothing makes me sink into my reading chair faster than a great novel. I love Salinger, Dumas père, Neal Stephenson, Dave Eggers, Anthony Burgess, Collette, Henry James, Austen, George Eliot... they all are on my eternal reread list.

One genre I adore is old travelogues by proper British ladies in the Victorian and Edwardian eras, especially if they wander around on a camel or mule with no more than a local guide in China, the Middle East, or some godforsaken desert somewhere. Those courageous and curious women never fail to astonish.

Quickfire:

Martial arts - Sonny Chiba or Bruce Lee?

There is nothing better than a movie with Bruce Lee; he made kung fu look effortless, like a ballet, and he was, I think, the first true Chinese movie star in the West.

That being said, Sonny Chiba has been a hero of mine since the Street Fighter series back in the seventies. (Favorite one in that series: Sister Street Fighter.) My husband and I used to buy braised duck tongues and chicken feet outside this cruddy old theater in downtown Taipei, sneak in some beer, and watch double martial arts features during our early years together. And that’s when I fell head over heels with Jackie Chan, too.

Steamed buns or jiaozi?

Jiaozi, jiaozi, jiaozi.

Celebrity chef: David Chang or Masaharu Morimoto?

Ooh, tough one. I truly admire Chef Morimoto’s allegiance to traditional Japanese cuisine. But Chef Chang’s versatility with key components of Chinese, Korean, and Japanese dishes has allowed him to form a fusion cuisine that is very exciting and intelligent. I admire them both immensely. It’s a draw.

Favourite brand of soy sauce?

Sad to say, but none, really. Japanese shoyu and tamari don’t taste like Chinese soy sauce – too light and salty. But the Chinese ones are really dicey, as there’s no control on food products on the Mainland; I don’t even buy their vinegar.

Some of the organic Taiwanese ones are pretty good, like Wan Ja Shan’s. However, I have been working on brewing some homemade soy sauce in my kitchen, and so far, so good. (I have so many crocks and jars with pickles and wines and brews in here smelling up the place that it is more like a mad doctor’s lair than a kitchen.)

Favourite Chinese beer?

For sentimental reasons, Taiwan Beer.

I know it's Japanese, but Hello Kitty or Badtz Maru?

Hello Kitty definitely, and let me tell you why. I used to find her insipid to the nth degree, but this all changed in the Chinese Wild West town of Jiayuguan in Gansu.

Jiayuguan is on the ancient Silk Road and was therefore one of the few land gateways into China, but it was also the place where people were banished from the empire for all time. Well, we went there on a visit, and I was really anticipating this stop since it has such a romantic, fearsome reputation. It’s in the middle of a desert mountain pass, very isolated and barren. But we landed there on the one day of the year when it rains buckets.

It poured so hard we could barely see more than a few feet, and of course we hadn’t brought rain gear, so I was delighted when an enterprising young woman sold me an umbrella. Upon opening it, I found Hello Kitty emblazoned on the mauve fabric, and she’s been my good luck totem ever since. I even have a Chinese Hello Kitty calendar in the kitchen every year, with the cat dressed up as the different zodiac animals; it’s a hallowed tradition that she always stand guard over the place where I work… in her Chinese incarnation, of course.

Golden sand & bitter melons

The last time we were in Shanghai a couple of years ago, it seemed like every cook in the city was terribly excited about a “golden sand” version of, well, just about everything possible. We got a bit exhausted from having this way too often, but now that some time has passed, my love for this lovely and delicious sauce has been rekindled.

Golden sand is nothing less than the yolks of Brined Eggs that are mashed and then stir-fried into a buttery sauce. Some of the things we had with the golden sand were less than stellar – combined with shellfish, for example, it’s an overkill of fatty, salty flavors (sort of like crab with drawn butter, at least to my taste) – but when it’s used as a visual and textural and flavorful contrast to the main ingredient, the result can be inspired.

Shanghai memories

My favorite rendition was when it was matched up with bitter melons. Everything was exactly right in this combination: the beautiful jade color of the vegetable against the amber crumbles of salted egg yolk, the crunchy melon sliding on the creamy sauce, and the slightly bitter and yet slightly sweet flavors mingling with the salty and, yes, really buttery aromas from the golden sand made this a winning trifecta.

The bitter melons are cut into thin batons, blanched, quickly cooled down, and only then tossed in the sauce. This serves to leach out most of the bitterness and essentially cook the melon very rapidly, which preserves its exquisite color and crispness.

Bitter melons in golden sand 
Jīnshā kŭguā 金沙苦瓜 

Shanghai
Serves 4 to 6 as a side dish

2 medium bitter melons

Boiling water

6 yolks from Brined Eggs, or storebought

2 cloves garlic, peeled and trimmed

1 green onion, trimmed

¼ cup fresh peanut or vegetable oil

2 to 3 teaspoons sugar

2 teaspoons sea salt

The raw & the cooked

1. Wash and dry the bitter melons and trim off both ends, as well as any damaged areas. Cut the melons lengthwise in half and scoop out both the seeds and any pith. Cut the melon halves crosswise into 2-inch or so lengths, and then slice these pieces lengthwise into thin (¼ inch) strips.

2. Bring the water to a boil in a medium saucepan and blanch the bitter melons for less than 1 minute, or until they turn bright green and taste barely cooked. Rinse the bitter melons with cool tap water in a colander set in the sink, and then drain thoroughly.

3. Use a fork to mash the yolks. Finely chop the garlic and green onion.

4. Pour the oil into a wok and heat it over medium-high until it starts shimmer. Add the mashed egg yolks, garlic, and onion, and stir-fry them until the sauce foams up; add the sugar and salt. Toss in the well-drained bitter melon and mix it quickly to heat the vegetables through. Taste and adjust seasoning. Pour the melons onto a serving plate and scrape all of the sauce out of the wok on top of them. Serve while still very hot.

Foaming salted yolks

Tips

Bitter melons aren’t really melons… they’re a type of squash. The problem lies in the translation, because the name in Chinese for both melons and squash is gua 瓜. 

You can get a good sense of how weird these names are when you consider that a watermelon is called a “western gua” (xigua 西瓜), and a pumpkin is referred to as a “southern gua” (nangua 南瓜). Why? Beats me. One is sweet, the other not so much. Watermelons may have traveled from Central Asia into China, which definitely is to the west, but the pumpkin originates in the Americas, which is nowhere south of China. I give up.

A general rule is, the lighter the green of the bitter melon, the less bitter it is. For this dish, a pale green is recommended, unless you enjoy more astringent flavors.

One beautiful vegetable

Bitter melons are in season during the fall before the first frost. Select ones that are heavy for their size, and try to avoid any with bruises, as these vegetables spoil easily.

Store the melons in the fridge, preferably with a piece of paper towel around them to soak up any moisture, since they are prone to rot. Use them up within a day or two, if at all possible.

This recipe is for brined chicken eggs. If you are using duck or goose yolks, be sure and adjust the amount accordingly. Also, these latter two kinds of eggs tend to have a gamy or fishy flavor. To combat this, cut each yolk in half, sprinkle them with a bit of white liquor or rice wine, and steam them for about 5 minutes. Cool the yolks before mashing.