It's the end of July. Which means that journalists, foreigner tourists, and mainland Chinese alike have started flooding into town for the Olympics. In the next few weeks, many of them will probably eat their fair share of Kung Pao Chicken, which has been designated the official dish of the 2008 Summer Games.
Why not a native Beijing dish, like Peking duck? My guess is because Peking duck is labor-intensive, somewhat expensive, and suitable only for large groups. The humble Gongbao Jiding(宫爆鸡丁) from Sichuan province, however, is easy to prepare, cheap, and more filling than a Clif Bar if you're eating alone. Heck, the sporting venues could even sell it in the stands, as the Chinese equivalent of caramel popcorn or hot dogs. And since Kung Pao Chicken doesn't contain offal or an awkward English translation, Westerners absolutely love it.
From my post in May on Kung Pao Tofu:
"The origin of (Kung Pao Chicken) is much debated. One popular theory is that Ding Baozhen, a Qing Dynasty emperor, enjoyed eating it so much that the dish was named after his officlal title, Gong Bao. Most people believe it to be of Sichuan or Hunan origin, though this NYTimes article says otherwise. What is important, though, is the sensational salty, sweet, sour, and spicy flavors and mingling on the palate.
This afternoon, less than 24 hours before hopping on a train to Hong Kong, I was faced with a dilemma. Do I boil some instant ramen noodles and start packing early, to ensure I remember everything and not wait until the last minute? Or do I make myself a good, hearty lunch, while updating my iPod with all the new music and podcasts necessary for a long train ride?
A perpetual procrastinator, I chose the latter.
The plan was to make Kung Pao Chicken (Gongbao Jiding), because that was what I was craving. Then I looked in the fridge and saw a pack of lonely-looking tofu, which would certainly go uneaten before the trip.
"Don't let me go to waste," it seemed to be saying. "Buy chicken another day, when you're not about to go for a 2-week trip."
"Fine," I sighed.
I made Kung Pao Tofu instead. It wasn't chicken, but it was less wasteful and kept in line with my eat-less-meat resolution. (Of course, I can only hold up for so long, since the wonton soups and Cantonese roast ducks in HK are too irresistable.)
If I had to make a list of my top favorite comfort foods of all time, mapo doufu would be at the top along with lamb curry, roast chicken, and anything in a clay pot. I almost always order it at Sichuan restaurants, despite that voice in my head pushing me to try something new. But the craving is too hard to resist. Thinking about the mala taste, the thick sauce that wraps sublimely around white rice, and the silken-ness of the tofu contrasting with the slightly crispy pork all make me surrender to the tried-and-true.
Fortunately, mapo doufu also very easy to make at home. This recipe is adapted from Land of Plenty: A Treasury of Authentic Sichuan Cooking by Fuchsia Dunlop, one of the very few Western food writers to delve deeply into Sichuan cuisine. I highly recommend this book if you're looking for not only recipes but also great writing that brings the sights, smells, and tastes of Sichuan province to life.
The first time I ever had dan dan mian was years ago in New York's East Village. It was one of those insanely hot and muggy July days, and my friend S and I were walking on St. Mark's Street, sweaty even in tank tops and skirts.
"Where do you want to have lunch?," I asked.
"Anywhere with AC," was the reply.
We ducked into the St. Mark's branch of Grand Sichuan and sure enough, there was a generous amount of AC, along with a particularly surly waitress. We ordered quickly just to get her to go away.
We ate about 4 or 5 dishes, but I don't remember any except the dan dan noodles and cold cucumber salad. I remember the dan dan noodles because they were some of the spiciest things I had ever tasted, at that point. I remember the cucumbers because, despite also being spicy, they tamed the heat in my mouth from the dan dan noodles.
I gulped about 4 or 5 glasses of water during the meal. The food was actually pretty good, but I, being a newbie to Sichuan food, couldn't fully appreciate the complexity of the Sichuan peppercorn. Years later, having had many 4-alarm Sichuan meals, I actually miss and crave the mala sensation (numbing spiciness) if I don't eat Sichuan for a week or more.
Fans of Sichuan cuisine know that even spice fiends need something to ward off all the heat in your mouth between bites. Cucumber salads are served at almost every Sichuan restaurant I've been too, and are good appetizers as well as good palate cleansers.
It's also easy make at home. However, one of the main ingredients is Sichuan peppercorn, which can still be rather hard to find outside China. For years the US had a ban on Sichuan peppercorn imports, which they recently lifted. But the last I heard the spice is still not widely available. (What is the situation like in other countries?)
In any case, if you aren't able to get your hands on any, you can always substitute with a dash of red pepper flakes or 5 g (1 tablespoon) hot chili paste. If you have Sichuan peppercorns and you're brave enough, leave them whole instead of grinding them up. ;-)
Also, although restaurants here like to serve the cucumbers in longer strips, I personally like them cubed. More surface area = more flavor absorbed.
A less spicy version of the salad can make a good appetizer for Western meals too.
Sichuan Cucumber Salad
Serves 6 to 8 as an appetizer
Finding a good Sichuan restaurant with an elegant, calm atmosphere can be difficult. Sichuan food, like most other Chinese food, still thrives in simple, rènao (noisy and lively) environments.
But for the past decade or so, Beijing has been a hotspot for sophisticated cuisine from the provinces. It's only naturally that city-dwellers are demanding great food with the attractive atmosphere to match.
Yu Xin Sichuan Dish, one of five locations in Beijing, is on the first floor of the Chang'an Grand Theatre, a block away from Beijing Railway Station. We walked into a high-ceilinged lobby and past the theater shop, selling what seemed like every variety of Chinese opera recordings in the country. During our 20 minute wait, we flipped through the menu and watched as satisfied diners strolled out of the restaurant.
