shanghai breakfast

During my first week of winter vacation, I stayed in Shanghai with my aunt and two cousins in Greentown, the gated community in which they reside and own three other apartments. Greentown houses residents that are pretty well-off, to say the least, yet only a block away from its automated gates and security guards lays a strip of "shops" that seem very out of place in the wealthy district. The strip comprises dozens of bathroom, door and regulation deprived shops where owners compete furiously to sell their breakfast items and groceries. The air is filled with the aromas from fried doughs, steamed buns, exotic picked vegetables and pungent fermented sauces combined with odors from the improperly disposed garbage. But it is a very popular place to grab a bite to eat, so my sister and I followed suit.

Food at this strip can be bought for US pennies - the giant "oil stick" (translated literally) - which, although looks small in this picture is about the size of a small baseball bat, can be bought for 0.8 RMB, or a measly 13 cents. This one of the most popular breakfast food in China - it's cheap, greasy, and satisfying.  The twisted and kneaded dough is fried in a large pot of oil (recycled who knows how many times) until golden brown, then dipped in soy milk, soy sauce, or hot sauce - it's probably the most acne-inducing item that one could find among the large selection of greasy breakfast foods in the strip.

Pictured below is a steaming pot of tea eggs. Tea eggs are extremely popular in China and I grew up eating them and loved them even when I hated eggs back in the day. You start by boiling eggs until cooked, cracking the shells (but not peeling) to let the flavor infuse, and then simmering or soaking them in a soy, star anise, and loose tea leaf combination. The soaking mixture lends the egg a subtle soy and tea flavor, although it's not overpowering.



I think I speak for pretty much everyone when I say Chinese soy milk is hands down better than American soy milk. It tastes more like soy beans and has a nuttier taste and is less rich - as it should be! I became addicted to these black sesame soy milk pouches, which I bought with big doughy pork and vegetable buns. The soy milk had the perfect amount of sweetness and the black sesame only added to the nutty flavor. I wanted nothing more after standing on line for those buns during those cold and bleak Shanghai mornings.

 

One of the shops that caught my eye the savory breakfast "crepe" station. I stood in life with what appeared to be a bunch of regulars and watched in awe as the "lao ban nian" of "female boss" in Mandarin (slang for a female entrepreneur of any kind) crank out these wraps at lightning speed. She started by smearing a thin corn-based batter on a hot, round iron griddle and cracking two eggs and incorporating it into the batter. Then she piled on the fillers: crispy fried wonton sheets, minced cilantro, crunchy picked radish, hoisin (seafood) sauce, fried fragrant peanuts, and pepper sauce. The result was a wrap with nice textural and flavor contrast; my sister and I quickly devoured it in big biteson the walk back home.

  

chicken soup

One of the last thing I'd ever want to do, let alone during my last day of New Year’s break, is climb five hours roundtrip up a "historic" mountain but my elder uncle demanded that I do so, and he hardly ever demands anything from me. We drive miles and end up at the edge of the city of Shenzhen, near a village located alongside a mountain range where my younger uncle spends his days following stock trends in his rustic, humble studio. He lived among other large families, many of who cram into one room homes and make their living selling produce or whatever possessions they no longer need to passing visitors and tourists.  

At the foot of the mountain, which has gained much recognition and has become a popular tourist spot, there were little carts that sported different fruits and snacks, like jackfruit, roasted chestnuts and steamed taro for the climb. We loaded up on these addictive tender clementine-like fruits, pronounced "Sa Tan Ju" in Chinese; I must’ve had hundreds of them over the break.


On the way down (we’d given up after 20 minutes of a three hour climb up to the peak) we ran into a man selling these candied fruits. I’ve seen them in the Asian oriented areas in the city and all around China but had never had one until then. They always looked so appealing with their glassy, bright-red candy coating. The sickly sweet shell encases an extremely sour fruit that resembles an tart apple. The tartness slapped the jet lag out of me. And the man was so friendly, we couldn't say no to a few more.


Because we had all “worked so hard” climbing for those 20 minutes we felt we deserved victory treats, and found a mini-market, picnic style, of fresh vegetables and jars of mountain honey set up next to the make-shift restaurant, which housed hungry tourists greedily tearing away at their smoked chickens with the help of complimentary gloves. My uncles and I decided on silken tofu custards, which can be found in many Asian restaurants in the city but of course Chinese food tastes better in China. The texture is similar to that of flan but is silkier, lighter and is flavorless (except lingering traces of soybeans) without toppings. This batch was supposedly made with naturally purified mountain water, so we pretended like it had magical powers and quickly slurped our bowls clean. I opted for the cane sugar topping, but my uncle chose the salty version, which is topped with spicy, pickled sun-dried daikon (white chinese radish). I'm not a fan of the "luo buo gan" but these had the perfect crunch and heat intensity.


The vegetable lady recommended that we buy her husband’s country chickens, down the road, and we obliged. The duration of catching one of those elusive birds and leaving the shack with a freshly plucked chicken lasted an entire hour, but watching it was both an enlightening and grotesque experience. My uncle, who was never a man to follow directions, went off to pick fresh garlic plants from the garden against the owner’s wishes. After actually paying for the rest of the vegetables (turnip greens, fresh shitake, and spicy red peppers) and the freshly plucked naked chicken, we headed home to cook. Below are some pictures, and our final product of shitake and chicken soup. 

capital plaza hotel

My uncle is a man of high expectations. As a connoisseur of all things overpriced, he had been raving about three of China's most expensive and sought after delicacies - abalone, bird's nest soup, and the cartilege of an elusive Chinese fish - for the first three weeks I stayed at his house. Adamant as I was against a fancy dinner in place of a comforting McDonald's chicken sandwich, he persisted and I eventually gave in. We made our way through heavy, heavy traffic and arrived Capital Plaza Hotel that rainy Thursday afternoon. He had repeatedly reinforced on the ride that this wasn't just a meal, it was a major cultural experience.

The hostess led us to a quiet room. In China, hotels are called " Jiu Dian" which means "wine shop". Food and drinks are perhaps even more important, and certainly more common, than anything related to room service and overnight stays. Private dining rooms reign over communal ones. We settled in our quiet, cozy room on the third floor, complete with TV, sofa, and bathroom. My uncle did the ordering while I sat on the couch and waited anxiously for my six thousand RMB meal to arrive.
Some highlights:

The first dish was a double boiled bird's nest soup, or translated literally, "swallow's nest". Bird's nest is, unappetizing as it sounds, the extracted spit of a species of swift, which builds its nests using hardened strands of its own saliva. This magical ingredient supposedly offers a variety of health benefits with frequent consumption. I'm not a firm believer of Chinese medicine but I slowly and hesitantly finished my soup, which was gently heated over a candle and complemented by five different syrups for flavor - which included almond, taro, coconut, ginger, and basic simple syrup. The "bird spit", as I call it, has a gelatinous texture- like undercooked, slightly crunchy vermicelli. The syrups made it edible, . And I did not look "more youthful" the next day, as my uncle had promised I would.

Abalone is an edible sea snail, a luxury item that is served in most Chinese banquets. We ordered individual portions of South African abalone served in its gravy-type sauce, made from the soaking liquid (they're brought dehydrated and the soaking process takes days). A lady came in to gently reheat and sauce the abalone table side. The meat is extremely tender but comes with a slight, interesting chew, and the sauce was incredibly savory and had a distinct fermented taste.


Pictured below is a stewed bitter gourd and pork belly dish. Bitter gourd, or melon, is reminiscent of a cucumber, but has a firmer texture and has a grotesquely bitter taste that lingers in your mouth. I grew up being forced to eat bitter gourd, and now I find that acquired taste addicting. The luscious sliced of pork belly in this dish adds a richness which helps balance out the pungent bitter taste.


Sea cucumber, which is sold dried in the market, is rehydrated before preparation until it's restarted to its original size. Sea cucumber also has a light gelatinous texture and has hints of salty sea water. This particular one was served with barley in a savory broth tinted green with Chinese broccoli puree. Definitely the highlight of the meal.

And that concludes my post about the most expensive meal I have ever eaten, and probably will ever eat.