A story whispered by the winds at 34.0000 North, 124.0000 West
A story whispered by the winds at 34.0000 North, 124.0000 West
They are everywhere, multiplying, infiltrating every city, and sometimes even finding their place in small villages. Everyone has formed an opinion about them, and I’m no exception. This somewhat negative opinion accompanies me on my journey. I associate these Chinese restaurants with the monotonous taste of a dominant soy sauce and frequent food poisoning.
When I visit them, it’s always encouraged by friends, with certain reluctance, especially if there isn’t a Chinese person present who can provide the real deal, the authentic dishes, only named in Chinese and jealously guarded by the owner. Despite the chef’s efforts, he never matches the flavors he could achieve if supported directly by his own land, water, local products, etc.
It is rare for the path of my taste buds to influence the choice of my travel destinations. I consider culinary discoveries as more or less pleasant bonuses to my wanderings.
It is all the more surprising that after a short time in China, if asked to describe its character as succinctly as possible, one word comes to mind: indulgence.
Without even mentioning the variety of dishes, the diversity of vegetables, and the discovery of numerous previously unknown fruits, it is undeniable that the Chinese love to eat.
The importance given to food is far greater than what is usually encountered, surpassing even that of countries thought to be the most gourmet. From my arrival, the tone was set: when wandering the streets, the itinerary is a real snackathon, where one never finishes tasting new specialties. When deciding to venture into bars and clubs, tapas make an appearance between beers, and sometimes, after leaving one restaurant, it’s to choose another.
The specialties are countless, and according to local reports, tasting 10 new dishes per day would require 10 years to cover them all. Each region has its own unique taste and a range of dishes prepared in its own style. Dumplings come in all shapes and colors, Chinese hot pots, which everyone here is crazy about, each present a distinct flavor, and there are as many types of tofu as there are varieties of cheese in France.
Here, the animal is eaten whole, tripe is a delicacy, and intestines are particularly appreciated. The menu also includes sweet garlic, chicken feet, pig ears, various cow stomachs, century eggs, and many others. These dishes are ultimately not strange, as if they can be criticized for lack of habit, our grandparents also didn’t waste anything edible.
Until the last days, I had the privilege of not having to order for myself at any point. To honor my hosts and their enthusiasm to let me taste many specialties, I promised myself to try everything presented to me. The oddity is not in the ingredients but rather in their preparation method.
Finally, I find myself alone facing this Chinese menu and see the photograph of a pile of tomatoes calling to me with their delicious bright red smile. Knowing I would be unable to resist them, I smile at the waitress as my finger enthusiastically points them out.
The waitress approaches, my paradise brought on a tray. I salivate in anticipation at the thought of biting into their freshness. Finally, something vegetal, something fresh, what a joy awaits me. I fidget with impatience as the dish begins to land until it is finally within reach. Placed before me, it taunts me. But a strange white substance covers it.
My travel companion seems to recognize a brine, but my suspicions are worse.