May I Repeat Your Order, Please?

By Beth Green

Have you ever ordered something in a restaurant because you thought it sounded good? I know I have. I’ve also ordered dishes just because they sounded strange.

You can find funny-sounding treats in restaurants all over the world. Deep fried candy bars is a conundrum I discovered in Florida—I always think of KFC-style secret recipe breading over a Butterfinger bar and gag a little. Menus in Asia, however, offer meme-worthy meal titles that pique your interest—and, sometimes, put off your palate.

I found reading English-translated restaurant menus in China to be one of the big perks of going out to eat in a “fancy” restaurant (“fancy” often just meaning tablecloths without holes and English-translated menus; you can infer the kind of “not-fancy” restaurants I usually frequented). Chinese dishes are often given names that are meant to be beautiful or auspicious, rather than descriptive of the ingredients and origin of the foodstuff. 

This is why you get menu entries like “Eight Tastes Chicken” (eight is lucky in China), “Ants Climbing a Tree,” “Crossing Bridge Noodles,” and “Crispy Pigeon Hanging Fire.”

“Ants Climbing a Tree” or ma yi shang shu (蚂蚁上树) is a popular dish from Sichuan province in the Southwest. It consists of ground pork in a fiery red sauce over thin noodles. I’ve had it with rice noodles and bean noodles. It has its name from the tiny bits of meat that cling to the noodles like insects on a branch.

“Crossing Bridge Noodles” or guo qiao mixian (过桥米线) is another famous Chinese entree with a strange name, this time from Yunnan province. Yunnan is the southwest-most province in China, abutting Thailand and Myanmar. As in Thailand and other Southeast Asian cultures, rice vermicelli is popular in Yunnan. To make Crossing Bridge Noodles, you start with hot broth, add ingredients (raw ones first, to be cooked by the hot liquid), and finally “cross the bridge” taking vermicelli from another bowl into your soup bowl. When you use chopsticks to do this, the noodles form a little bridge. There’s debate over whether this is really why the dish has this name, but I think this explanation is the most fun.

However, not all dishes have the same name throughout the country, or even from restaurant to restaurant. When I first moved to China, I enjoyed going to a hole-in-the-wall family restaurant that served food from far northern China. The first time I ate there some friends did all the ordering for the group.  When the food arrived, my partner and I were wowed by the restaurant’s lean, tangy sweet and sour pork. Then, a week or so later Dan and I went back by ourselves, armed with a dictionary, and showed the waiter a series of entries: “sweet,” “sour,” and, of course, “pork.” The waiter was patient and eager to help us, but completely baffled as to what we wanted. What on earth was this barbaric sweet and sour pork? We were stumped as well, since we knew we’d eaten exactly that just a week prior. That day we made do with our “point and shoot” method of ordering (akin to throwing a dart at a map and deciding to go there) and were sure to follow up with our friends later.

It turned out, the right way to order sweet and sour pork in that restaurant was to ask the waiter for guo bao rou, or, literally translated, “Pot Enveloped Meat” with “meat” being generally understood as “pork.” Unfortunately, as I found out when we moved towns, only that style of sweet and sour pork can be called that; going to other restaurants and ordering it only garnered me more than the usual amount of quizzical looks from staff.

Igor, bring me some...tofu.

Later, when I lived in Guizhou province, I discovered a tofu dish that I insisted on ordering for the pleasure of saying the name: “Brain Tofu,” dou fu nao (豆腐脑 ). A specialty of one particular restaurant in the town I lived in, it is a soft-set curd, the consistency of a not-quite-finished flan, resting in watery brine. It’s the color of our “little gray cells” too. Not entirely appetizing to look at, it was however a great fire quencher when paired with Guizhou’s other, spicy, cuisine.

What strange menu items have you found while traveling? 

Off the Beaten Track: Food Spies and Illicit Barbecue

Leah Andrews lived and traveled in China for two years and has backpacked through Europe and Asia. She repaired shoes and pants with thread and duct tape, and learned how to sleep sitting up on packed trains in order to see interesting places and try new things and she would do it again in a heartbeat. At the moment her days are spent in an office, behind a desk building and maintaining websites. In the evenings she tries out new recipes and reads travel books and blogs; dreaming of prayer flags dancing in the wind and the enticing smell of spices from street food stalls.  All images used in this post are hers, as well.

Being a food spy is the best form of espionage. One time, while standing in line to file my work visa paperwork in Hong Kong, I was enlisted by a German chef who worked at a hotel in Mainland China.

For the next three days we wandered from hotel to hotel to see how they had their buffets set up, what they were serving, how they were prepared and displayed. We had tea at the Shangri La, tested out the soup, salad and noodle bar lunch and the view at the Hyatt, and walked through a number of hotel buffets pretending to be a couple who couldn’t make up their minds.

“This looks good, let’s eat here,” he would say as we approached the hostess.

“I don’t know if this is what I want,” I would reply.

“It is a buffet, how can it not have something you want?” he would ask, and then turning to the hostess he would inquire if he and his picky guest could tour the buffet.

Shao kao--Chinese street barbecue

Espionage was delicious and I thought I had a future in it until we were walking from one hotel to another and came upon a street vendor selling meat and vegetable sticks. I let out a squeal of delight and rushed to the vendor to choose sticks of fish balls with their wonderful pink hue, beef balls, oyster mushrooms, and milky white lotus root with its pinwheel shape and crisp texture. These stands offer a plethora of fast, colorful and pleasing food. I’m an addict.

Almost anywhere in China you can find these stands. They are often outside of schools or shopping areas so children or shoppers can grab a quick snack. Some places grill the meat and then pepper it with spices at the end while in Beijing I found stands that had a vat of water and oil and spices that they submerge the sticks of meat and vegetables in.  Regardless of the method, the result is a satisfying snack.

My spy partner was looking at me with disgust as I happily ate my meat sticks en route to our next hotel, and soon my gig as a spy was up.

“Do you know what is in those?” he asked.

“I’ve got a pretty good guess, but not really,” I admitted.

“But you still eat them?”

“Oh yeah!”

Huang Ming's sticky rice cart

“You don’t know how long they have been sitting out, or how they have been handled,” he said.

“I can say the same thing about food at any restaurant or hotel,” I responded. Things were pretty quiet after that.  It was becoming obvious that my tastes were not as refined as they needed to be.

While it may have ended my career as a food spy, my love of street food isn’t anything I’m willing to give up.

When I taught English in Zunyi, in the Chinese province of Guizhou, I started going to the same sticky rice vendor for breakfast every morning. Huang Ming, the owner, would see me walking toward the stand, and she would wave and start fixing a bowl of warm sticky rice with potatoes topped with pickled vegetables, marinated pork meat, a bit of spicy pepper and some puffed rice. It was the perfect breakfast, it filled you up and the spice worked similarly to a cup of coffee—I seemed to get a little extra energy from it.

Then, I moved to Kunming, the capital of Yunnan province. There, in an attempt to gentrify the city there is a ban on street food stalls. In the heart of the city you just can’t find them. There are some rebels who have created thin charcoal barbeques with light sawhorse-esque stands that they grill meat sticks on, but they are always keeping an eye out for the police so they can grab the long thin grill under one arm and the stand in the other hand and run to avoid fines and punishment for breaking the ban. For the most part the city is sadly empty of food stands. 

So many choices, so many flavors

A friend and I were riding our bicycles and we found an area about five kilometers outside of the city where several shao kao or small barbeque stands had set up. These were the real deal with large grills, and tables with a brilliant mix of meats and vegetables spread on them. There were fish which swam in plastic bowls until they were chosen by patrons, and then the owner of the shao kao would expertly pull the fish out of the water, break its neck, de-scale it and then barbecue it.  You could choose your meat or your vegetable and then take a seat on small plastic stools and wait for barbequed eggplant and chicken skin to appear.  Sitting outside on our rickety plastic stools, with a cold beer in hand, taking in the smell of the coal grills and the meat and vegetables on the barbeque, we knew we had found something good, and that it was going to taste slightly better since it was forbidden street barbeque.

Hungry and Far from Home

By Beth Green

Image by Pong/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

What do peanut butter, cheese, beans for breakfast, maple syrup, Vegemite and McDonald’s Big Macs have in common? They’re all fixes for homesickness—although the remedy usually only lasts through the final bite.

When I was young my parents and I sailed through the Caribbean and South Pacific on their home-built trimaran. If we were on a longer ocean crossing—more than a few days—my mother and I would play the “what will you eat” game. We’d sit in the cockpit watching for flying fish and describe, in as much detail as possible, the perfect meal for when we reached shore: strawberries, fleshy and red; milk as white as the crest of a breaking wave; crumbly, chocolatey Butterfinger bars. And my favorite, the cold, delicious thickness of a chocolate milkshake.

Since then, my tastes have changed a bit, I suppose (though it’s difficult to imagine a world with too many chocolate milkshakes), and the foodstuff I hanker for most when thinking of the U.S. is that wonderful, juicy, symbol of Americana—the hamburger.

Photo by gt_pann/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When I lived in the States (I’m based in Southeast Asia now), I nearly never ate a hamburger. I was a slow-food kind of girl. I’d still whip through a McDonald’s drive-thru for a shake and possibly an order of fries, but I kept the hamburger to a once or twice a year maximum.

But somehow, my various transitions around the world have given me a slight obsession with the proper way to prepare a hamburger. This is why it was quite distressing to find that, in China, the word hamburger has been translated to han bao 汉堡 (sometimes doubled to han bao bao) and the term has expanded to include all sandwiches made with buns—even sometimes all sandwiches. Order a hamburger in China, therefore, and occasionally it would be a ham sandwich. Or, ask for a cheeseburger—and get a lonely Kraft single between two slices of sweet white bread. Hold the (fruit-flavored) mayo.

For the record, this is how I like my hamburgers, from the top down:

Toasted buns, topped with sesame seeds. Buns should be fluffy enough to sink your teeth into easily, but not so fragile that the juices from the meat leak through to your fingers.

Frilly lettuce. Not too much. Spinach leaves acceptable.

Image: Sura Nualpradid/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Thick, red slices of tomato. Not those skinny Roma tomatoes that fall out onto your lap when you bite into the burger, either.

Dill pickle slices. Leave your sweet pickles for hot dog relish, thank you.

Mustard. Yellow mustard is OK, but brown mustard is that much better. Hot or fancy mustard gets more points.

Ketchup. Not so much that it drips, but I love that sweet-and-sour taste.

Cheese optional. If put on, it should not have come pre-wrapped and shouldn’t be too drippy when cooked on top of the…

…medium-rare beef patty. I am not a cook, so I can’t truly describe what I like here—but I know it involves high quality beef, finely chopped onion, a good twist or two of freshly ground pepper, and, I believe, some egg yolk.

And, then we’re down to the bun.

Did you enjoy our little game of “what will you eat?”

Your turn!

Heaven on a Stick

By Beth Green

Street food is a curious thing. It’s loved, it’s despised, it’s feared, it's revered.
 
Travelers either avoid it like the plague (well, OK, because they don’t want to get the plague) or swarm to it, hoping it will pass on more than just sustenance. Somehow, travelers hope to ingest not only food but also culture and an understanding of the population. Did I learn more about Thailand by eating stir-fried ants? Did I become somehow Moroccan by gulping down cinnamon-flavored snails? Did I gain a mystical understanding of Bali from the chicken satay sticks I ate on the beach? Well, at the time I thought I did.

Street side Barbecue

But nowhere I have traveled offers up street food more varied and interesting than in China.

The idea of snacking is deeply embraced by Chinese culture. A word for “snack,” is 小吃, xiao chi, or, literally “small eat.” Though it may seem obvious to say so, China is a huge country, and each region, province or even village may have a “small eat” that they are especially proud of.

Yang Rou Chuan

One of the most commonly seen street foods throughout China are 羊肉串, yang rou chuan， lamb meat sticks. These are a traditional snack of the Chinese Muslim population, and you can often find a migrant yang rou chuan vendor by his snow white skull cap, if he’s from Gansu or Ningxia provinces, or his octagonal green cap if he’s from the Uigyur Autonomous Region.

Yang rou chuan are thin skewers of mutton (well, possibly goat meat) that have been spiced with cumin and hot red peppers, then roasted over a shallow coal barbecue and fanned with woven palm leaves until cooked through. They’re tasty, cheap (usually you can get three to six for the equivalent of one US dollar, depending on size), and best washed down with a curbside beer.

Another famous Chinese street food is one you smell before you see. Stinky tofu (yep, that’s what they call it), or 臭豆腐, chou dou fu, are wafer-thin squares of tofu barbecued over a bowl of coals. They’re as smelly as a backpacker’s socks, but, if you can get past the odor, are a cheese-like nibble that will definitely earn you points with the locals.

Fresh Pineapple on a Stick

Visitors to Beijing have a special rite of passage to shock their friends back home—a meander to some touristy market, like the Donghuamen Night Market, after dinner finds rows of stainless steel food carts pushing bugs and other creepy crawlies on sticks. Here’s where you get to pose with a big, black scorpion by your lips; gnaw a deep fried starfish while recording it for Facebook posterity; or, crunch on a beetle, wings included. These snacks are traditionally eaten in Asia—not only China—but today you’re more likely to see modern Chinese eating KFC's popcorn chicken than chowing down on a praying mantis. 

Eating Bugs

I make a point to try new street foods when I find them (starfish tastes like oil, ditto the scorpion) and so far, my favorite Chinese street foods are found in Guizhou province. Guizhou is famous for not being famous, a southwestern province of karst hills and winding rivers. And, in China, it’s known for blisteringly spicy food. Put that on a stick, and I’m in heaven. 

The best snacks are often the simplest. During the winter, Guizhou entrepreneurs break out their biggest woks, set up a coal basket and burner on the street corner, and fry potatoes. The first time I saw it, I was unimpressed. French fries are as universal as, well, hamburgers. But then I tried them. After frying up the potatoes, the vendor slips them in a metal bowl; dashes vinegar and salt (well, okay, MSG) over them; spoons in heaps of hot dried chilies, tongue-numbing Sichuan pepper (花椒, hua jiao) and chives; covers the bowl and shakes it like a tambourine; and then gives the final, piping hot result to you in a plastic baggie. A serving usually costs about 30 cents US. The hot, numbing, spicy, tangy potatoes used to bring tears to my eyes—and only partially because of the peppers. 

Guizhou Peppers Set Out To Dry

Guizhou’s streets also offer up tiny, soft, sweet potato pancakes; barbecued octopus legs (heavily spiced); eggs baked into corn flour muffins; tiny bits of grilled spiced mutton; eggplant skewers; corn on the cob; roast sweet potatoes straight out of the field; fresh pineapple by the chunk; and egg-crepe wraps filled with cilantro, chopped meat, crunchy fried dough and hot sauce.

Guizhou Egg Muffins

When I lived in Guizhou a few years ago, it wasn’t unusual for us to walk out of work at dinnertime only to find we were entirely satiated by snacks by the time we arrived home.

Chinese snacks are also a snapshot into the culture. In cities like Beijing, which have embraced modernity, a street-side snack might be some prepackaged sweet bread or imported Japanese cuttlefish. In bar districts, where party-goers seek a little protein as filling to soothe their alcohol-laden tummies, you can find yang rou chuan sellers barbecuing their enticing treats. And, in the rural countryside of Guizhou province, you’ll see the crops from the farms, the staples of the working class, devoured by factory workers on their way home from building modern China. 

Guizhou Sweets