The man in seat 22B startles me awake. It is midafternoon and we have been airborne for about an hour. While I have slept, he has tucked a sugary orange drink into my seat pocket. Now he’s handing me the straw. “No thanks,” I say, smiling weakly. “Take the straw anyway,” he urges. I thank him, and drift back to sleep.
Nudge. Here’s your lunch box. Nudge. Do you want fizzy lichee juice? Mercifully, he doesn’t wake me a fourth or fifth time for the fresh mandarin orange and the packet of herbal cough drops. He leaves them on my tray, which he has thoughtfully lowered for me.
For the Chinese, food is a consuming passion. Would your neighbour on Air Canada rouse you for an airline meal? The food on Air China is even worse, but perhaps the Chinese have developed a special anti-starvation gene after millennia of famine. Or maybe it’s because of that old saw: an hour later, you’re hungry again.
After the 21″2-hour flight from Beijing, when everyone is hungry again, our Boeing 737 lands just in time for supper, in Chengdu. This is the capital of Sichuan, known in the West as Szechwan. Its people are even more obsessed with food than the average Chinese. Chengdu’s market is among the most bountiful in all of China, its restaurants nationally famous, and its residents so passionate about the superiority of locally grown spices-there are seven varieties of red chili peppers alone-that some Sichuanese pack their own condiments while travelling to other parts of China.
Chengdu is also home to China’s only cuisine college, called the Sichuan Culinary Institute. Situated in a compound of crumbling brick buildings on North Alley, a narrow street in what was once the original walled city, the college trains about 200 students a year in Sichuan cuisine; all must pass stiff nation-wide university entrance exams before they are accepted into the three-year degree program. This summer, when the college moves to a new campus in the suburbs, it will begin offering daylong cooking classes to foreign tourists. I’m their first guinea pig.
My teacher is Lu Maoguo, a first-grade chef who, from 1983 to 1986, was sent by the school to work at Toronto’s Fon San Jin Jiang Restaurant at Eglinton and Avenue Road. Chef Lu, 39, is wearing a spotless white toque and jacket. I brought an apron, but he hands me a matching outfit. He looks serious because he has only one day to teach me six dishes. We set to work immediately in a classroom fitted with three gas burners, a blackboard and rising rows of curved seats like an operating theatre.
A shy perfectionist, Chef Lu can roast lacquered ducks, carve lotuses out of turnips and prepare still-life cold platters of pleasure boats whittled from carrots sailing on a placid lake of clear jellied bean paste. But I have asked to learn Sichuan’s home-style dishes: Dan Dan Noodles in hot sauce, Yu Xiang Slivered Pork with garlic and chili, Ma Po Bean Curd, Gong Bao Diced Pork with chili and peanuts, savory Consomme of Slivered Pork and Hot Preserved Mustard Tuber and, of course, the classic Hot and Sour Soup. All have one thing in common: fireworks. Sichuan’s explosive chili peppers detonate on the palate, aromatic “flower” peppercorns numb the mouth, and dou ban, a pungent paste of garlic, fermented soybeans and chilies, sets the tongue dancing for relief like a cat on a hot tin roof.
Like France, China has great provincial cuisines. Chinese gastronomes argue ferociously-over a meal, of course-about which is the best. Three originate from provinces along the coast. There is Guangdong in the south, home of China’s original nouvelle cuisine, with delicate Cantonese dishes. In the middle is Jiangsu, famous for the rich soy-based stews of Shanghai. And in the north, there is Shandong, birthplace of Confucius and home of crisp, leek-studded pancakes and vinegar-pepper poached fish.
Only the fourth province, Sichuan, is landlocked. Bigger than France and with twice as many people, Sichuan’s fertile alluvial plain produces more rice than any other province and sustains 110 million people. In springtime, its fields glow with the buttercup-yellow flowers of the rapeseed, or canola, crop. Fast-running rivers lace through its bamboo- fringed mountains, feeding into the great Yangtze. The waterway stretches more than a thousand miles east to the seacoast and, until recently, was Sichuan’s (literally “Four Rivers”) only means of communication with the rest of China.
Isolated from the rest of the country, the province developed its own style of cooking. The distance from sea traders, coupled with a humid climate, made food preservation crucial. Smoking, drying, pickling and, above all, a wanton use of spices, especially chili peppers, became the hallmark of its earthy, voluptuous cuisine.
The earliest recipes, according to Chengdu’s culinary historian Xiong Sizhi, were medicinal, designed to invigorate the emperor and ensure he had many sons. One nationally renowned Chengdu restaurant, the Hall of Harmony and Benevolence, is also an all-purpose pharmacy for devotees of herbal-medicinal cooking. It serves three-snake wine for numbness, tonic of caterpillar fungus for anemia and bisque of dried sea horses for indigestion.
All of it’s for sale at the famous Green Stone Bridge market, a clashing, noisy scene of pure bounty that stretches for blocks. Sidewalk vendors entice pet-lovers with Pekingese puppies, puffy-cheeked goldfish and lime-green parrots. Amateur gardeners with only a windowsill to their names lust over stalls of potted orchids, azaleas, grapevines, freesias and lilies. Just behind, weary shoppers recline on bamboo chairs in teahouses that open onto the street.
The main draw is the produce: orange-red carrots, fat white turnips, wicker baskets full of pearl onions, bamboo shoots still swathed in their dry golden leaves, firm ivory cakes of fresh bean curd and mounds of dewy leeks, cabbages, shelled peas and lima beans. Vendors slurp midmorning bowls of steaming, chili-laced noodles while urging shoppers to buy an extra lacquered duck, another bunch of homemade sausages or a fresh-killed rabbit. Spices spill out of gunny sacks: blood-red chili peppers, whole white peppercorns, ground red chili powder and dark green knots of preserved mustard tubers. Prices vary according to quality. The best “flower” peppercorns, for instance, come from Hanyuan, a mountain town on Sichuan’s Dadu River, and command twice the going rate. To understand the intricacies of these spices is to know the secret of the Sichuan sizzle.
Chef Lu grabs a handful of dried chili peppers and begins chopping them. Next, he slices glossy pearls of garlic and minces a knot of gingerroot so fresh that sand still clings to its pale-gold parchment skin. It was hard to cook Sichuan dishes in Canada, he says. The chilies were hot enough, all right, but lacked perfume. The vinegars had no zip and the soy sauces came in only a half-dozen varieties. After his first frustrating month in Toronto, he air-freighted a supply of his own spices from Chengdu.
Chef Lu’s menacing cleaver is the only knife he uses. With it, he slices pork as thin as prosciutto, chops ham bones or uses its flat side to conk out a thrashing fish. He sharpens it at least once a day on a smooth stone. When slicing, his thumb and forefinger guide the blade; the other fingers grasp the handle.
“In Canada, you have a machine for slicing meat,” says Chef Lu. “But you can cut your fingers off. It’s dangerous.” The cleaver isn’t? He admits most students cut themselves once, but “then, it doesn’t happen again.” Really? Well, the clumsier ones wound themselves half a dozen times or more, he says.
I gingerly wield the cleaver with my left hand. Chef Lu has never had to teach a lefty before because Chinese are all coerced into right- handedness from toddlerhood. But he gamely shows me how to keep the blade low and curl my other hand into a claw over the garlic so my knuckles form a protective shield against fingertip loss. The knife is so sharp that with each slice, the heavy blade sinks into the chopping board, a cross section of a tree trunk. That’s a no-no.
China has nine levels of chefs, depending on the cook’s training, skill and seniority. Promotions are strictly controlled and depend on regular examinations. The highest ranking is a “special first,” usually attained after a chef has worked for 20 years. Master chefs like these practice slicing meat on delicate silk. If they manage not to cut the fabric, they graduate to using someone’s bare back.
Chef Lu cooks and lectures all morning. In the afternoon, I’ll have to replicate what I’ve seen him do. Most of the time-about two hours-is spent slicing and chopping. The final cooking will take less than a minute of stir-frying for each dish. Anything Chef Lu can’t use but still has flavor-ginger peel, meat bones-is dumped into a simmering pot of broth. This is cuisine of the lean. By the end of the morning, there is just a handful of garbage, mainly an eggshell and a few chili seeds.
He carefully arranges the raw ingredients-lean pork, bright green garlic shoots, tendrils of fresh pea sprouts, glossy red pickled peppers, white bean curd and crunchy black wood-ear fungus-on white china plates in the order he will toss them into the wok. Because of the lightning speed of wok cooking, he also prepares his sauces in advance. There are no written recipes, nor does he measure anything. As I frantically try to estimate amounts and jot down notes, he dips his ladle here and there into a set of 11 stainless-steel spice bowls, arranged next to his wok like a painter’s palette.
There is dull red chili powder, flame red chili oil, cornstarch, yellow rice wine, soy sauce, dark rice vinegar, sesame oil, salt, sugar, dou ban paste-and monosodium glutamate. Chef Lu, who has never heard of Chinese Restaurant Syndrome, can’t understand why so many Canadians object to it. “Some customers said no MSG, or no salt or garlic,” he recalls, wrinkling his nose at the bad memory. “But I did what they said.”
In Canada, MSG is a crystalline chemical substance. But in China, he says, MSG is a dull white powder extracted from wheat, and has no side effects. It’s true. For many people, including myself, the daughter of a Chinese restaurateur in Montreal, too much MSG means a headache. Yet in a decade of eating my way through China, I’ve never once had an MSG headache.
Around 11 a.m., Chef Lu starts to stir-fry. So do the other 2.5 million people in Chengdu. As everyone turns on their gas stoves, the flame flickers frustratingly low. Because Chinese cooking generally demands high, intense heat, Chef Lu compensates by heating the wok a long time.
To make a classic Ma Po Bean Curd, he simmers the cubed tofu in a separate wok of salted water. In another wok, he stir-fries some minced beef in peanut oil until it changes color, then tosses in rice wine and soy sauce. After a moment, he scoops the beef into a dish. Then he sautes a dollop of dou ban paste in the wok and adds a ladleful of broth, some ground chili powder and chopped fermented soybeans. When it boils down a bit, he adds the hot, drained bean curd, and throws in a bit more broth, some soy sauce, salt, MSG and cornstarch. He adds the warm minced beef and some bright green garlic shoots, flips the mixture in the wok a few times as if it were an omelet, then pours it into a dish. The final touch: a liberal sprinkling of fresh-ground “flower” peppercorns. It smells heavenly. We eat it, standing up, in the classroom.
After a brief break, it’s my turn. My hand aches after an hour of using the knife. My slices of pork are lumpy and ragged, but I escape with fingers intact. The wok is much heavier than the one I use at home in Beijing, and I can hardly lift it. North China woks, Chef Lu explains, are usually made of malleable iron, which is thinner and lighter. In Sichuan, woks are made of cast iron and, unlike northern woks, have no handles. I forgot to bring oven mitts. Chef Lu proffers a crumpled dishcloth, which doesn’t look very flame-proof. I hate holding hot things, but I don’t tell him this; he already thinks I’m a wimp because I can’t lift his wok.
Chef Lu stands on the other side of the gas burner, ready to intervene if I falter. He lights the stove, and I feel a growing sense of panic as smoke rises from the hot, oiled wok. I consult my notes and steel myself. He coaches me while I toss in ingredients as fast as I can. I start with the Yu Xiang Slivered Pork (see recipe, right). I throw in the meat and jump back when it sizzles. Then I swirl in the minced red peppers, dou ban, ginger, garlic and green onions. With Chef Lu urging me to go faster, I dump in black wood-ear fungus, slivered bamboo shoots and a ladle of broth. I finish it off with my bowl of premixed sauce: sugar, vinegar, soy sauce rice wine, sesame oil, MSG and cornstarch.
I can’t believe it. It looks, smells and tastes wonderful. I’d always wanted to learn to make an authentic Yu Xiang Pork: Separated from its complex blend of sweet, spicy and garlicky flavors, I suffer withdrawal symptoms whenever I return to Canada. Sichuan restaurants in the West are mostly phony. Since Sichuanese, especially chefs, rarely emigrate, restaurants usually hire a Hong Kong cook who makes standard Cantonese food jazzed up with commercial chili sauce. Sichuanese gag when I tell them ersatz Sichuan restaurants in Canada fire up Hot and Sour Soup with chili oil instead of the requisite ground white pepper.
By late afternoon, my six dishes are cooked. Chef Lu tastes them critically. My Gong Bao Pork with peanuts and chili is too sweet, my bean curd tastes spicy on impact, but fades on the palate, my Hot and Sour Soup lacks vinegar, and my Dan Dan Noodles are bland. But my Yu Xiang Pork and my consomme pass muster. “Not bad for the first time,” he says. We both beam and agree to go out for a 20-course banquet that evening.
Although we’re tired, we decide against a tonic of sea horses and caterpillar fungus. We head instead for the Dragon Dumpling House, a famous three-storey eatery that specializes in more than a hundred different kinds of savory pastries. We sample at least a dozen, served between steaming dishes of braised abalone, tea-leaf-smoked duck and eel soup. Chef Lu brings along his wife, who is-what else?-a first-grade chef. Booking cooking classes: Private lessons cost $35 (U.S.) for half day; $50 for full day. Group lessons (minimum five, maximum 15) cost $30 per person for half day; $45 for full day. Two-and three-day classes are also possible. An interpreter costs $5.50 extra for the day. All lessons include a lunch of what students prepare at the school. Ten days notice is required. The school promises to have written recipes in English by the summer.
For more information, or to book a class, contact the Sichuan Provincial Government Foreign Affairs Office, 72 2nd Section, Ren Min Nan Road, Chengdu, Sichuan, China, 610016. Or fax them (in English) at 86-28- 665194 or 86-28-671771. They will also book hotels and arrange sightseeing tours.
BURNING DESIRE
Chef Lu’s firey Sichuan Yu Xiang Pork The intense heat in this pungent dish hits quickly. Be sure to have lots of steamed rice at the ready. Serves two to four.
20 dried black wood-ear fungus 2 stalks green onion 40 cloves garlic 2 inches gingerroot 8 ounces canned bamboo shoots 8 pickled red chilies (If Sichuan pickled red chilies are unavailable, substitute an extra tablespoon of dou ban. Do not use fresh or dried chilies.) 1 pound lean pork 1 teaspoon cornstarch Pinch of salt 2 teaspoons rice wine 3 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil 6 tablespoons dou ban chili paste For sauce, mix in a separate small bowl: 4 teaspoons sugar 4 teaspoons dark rice vinegar 2 tablespoons soy sauce 2 tablespoons rice wine 1 teaspoon sesame oil 1″2 teaspoon MSG (optional) 2 tablespoons cornstarch, dissolved in 4 tablespoons broth or water Soak the wood-ear fungus in warm water for at least 15 minutes. Separately mince the green onion, garlic and ginger. Separately chop wood-ear fungus and bamboo shoots into shreds. Seed the chilies, then mince finely to a near paste. Lay ingredients out on a platter.
Cut pork in even shreds and put in a small bowl. Mix in cornstarch, salt, wine.
Bring the wok to a high heat. Add the oil and stir-fry the pork until its colour changes, about a minute. Add the minced red chilies and dou ban and stir once. Add the ginger, garlic, green onions, wood-ear fungus and bamboo, and stir several times. Add the bowl of premixed sauce, and stir another 15 seconds. Serve immediately with steamed white rice. All ingredients available in most Chinatowns.
