The Food

I'm Stephen, I’ve come to China with my friend Callum to teach and live abroad for my first year outside of Edinburgh. Here is a record of my thoughts and experiences in a land so far West we call it the East, today… The Food.

I don’t know if it’s my lifestyle, or if it’s China but a very large part of my lifestyle in China is the food. Back home a form of Chinese cuisine has entered into the public’s hearts. It’s the one with the rice that isn’t as spicy, the one that people eat when they want some eastern flair in their diet but can’t take the fiery tongue that follows a vindaloo. Chinese food, or as some call it over here, food (饭) bears little resemblance to the takeaways’ spin on the luminous, syrupy sweet-and-sour sauce covering deep-fried, battery-farmed chicken balls and green peppers. Admittedly, I live in only one tiny town nestled in the sprawling mountains of Guizhou and so my culinary experiences do not speak for all of this magnificent country whose culture, languages and space are more eclectic and vast than the combined nations of Europe but they certainly speak for something. They speak for my entirely biased and narrow view of C. H. I. N. A.

My flatmate and friend-from-home (security blanket) Callum arrived in our flat, put up for us by the university and, after a good evening-and-a-night’s sleep we explored our new digs. Finding, among other things, grubby floors, sticky sideboards and a whole gang of cockroaches crawling over our woks and chopsticks we decided that the best solution to our problems was to ignore them, hope they went away and that we would eat out that night. This was a marvellous decision, the area surrounding our apartment has numerous tiny eateries covered in mysterious Hanzi characters, of which I recognise only the symbols for “language” 文, “meat” 肉 and “ocean” 海. One of these is helpful.

We had been warned about hygiene in China. Culturally they don’t go in for hand soap after defecation, stringent health and safety regulations or sell-by-dates. On the sell-by-dates front, I think we should give them a pass. The relatively small area is home to around a seventh of the total population of the world and feeding them all is a monumental-nigh-impossible task. The result of this conundrum is a number of unusual cuisines that certainly haven’t made the journey along the Silk Road to the plastic containers of the Chinese next to Murieston Crescent in Dalry. One such shock dining experience occurred hours after landing in Beijing.

Picture Callum and myself, exhausted after the sleepless flight from hell landing in Beijing surrounded by unfamiliar tongues and inscriptions, our link-flight was cancelled, our phones were unable to connect to strange wi-fi to alert the university to the fact that we had no idea when we would finally get in to Guiyang, our stomachs were rumbling. After an hour long queue with the passengers of three other cancelled flights we got our tickets and were told we had an eight hour wait. We didn’t know whether we needed to gorge ourselves or slip off into blissful unconsciousness more. Eventually we lumbered, zombielike, towards the only restaurant that we could see.

Luckily there were pictures. I remembered my time in Japan and the blissful experience of picking anything off the menu and having something delicious placed in front of me.  I selected on the menu a picture of some noodle soup with a mysterious meat in it and something deep-fried. I could use some comforting and that deep fried something was exactly the comfort I needed. We sat down at a table, gazing off into our own middle-distances like toddlers after a long plane-journey spent energetically kicking a nice man’s chair or, more accurately, like the man who had only slept for two hours in the past day and a half due to said kicking child’s Olympian reserves of energy. With dazed surprise the food was placed in front of us, and my deep fried something looked intriguing close-up. It was long and thin with three nobly prongs sticking out the end of it. It was covered in a sauce with red chillies and just smelling its spice made my eyes water. I took chopsticks in hand and transferred on to my mouth, biting off a prong. The spice caught in my throat and I began hiccupping. The more I chewed the more I came to recognise the lumpy texture of gristle and tendon and bone. I have avoid chicken feet and all delicacies enigmatically concealed by batter ever since.

Our culinary experiences have thankfully improved. The restaurants in our local area (and this applies to the convenience stores as well) resemble garages containing plastic stools and tables. Walking down a street can be like passing by a city full of exceptionally unabashed citizen’s living rooms for shop owners spend most of their lives sitting there, waiting. If they want to do the ironing or watch the latest “America Captain” movie they will, rising only to begrudgingly serve a customer. One restaurant situated about five minutes away from our flat is owned by a lovely couple who always greet us happily when we go in. Their staple dishes consist of a simple combination of rice and meat. The rice is cooked on a hob in the serving bowl until it becomes crispy on the bottom and succulent on top. On top of this is placed your choice of tender meat or tofu and you may soy sauce or 辣 chili sauce to taste. The portions are perfectly judged in China and very filling, I can finish off a bowl of this tantalising dish and be comfortable enough to have only two small dumplings the following day to keep me going until dinner. What we didn’t realise was that the portions are not meant to be perfect, they’re meant to be too much. When Callum and I finish our bowls of rice the chef likes to bring out more, smaller bowls of side dishes and extra rice, free of charge. The best of these is cubes of aubergine cooked in oil with minced pork. I try now, whilst dining there to leave a little food on the side just to make sure we’re not exploiting their hospitality.

In addition to paying a decent salary and providing us with wi-fi, water, electricity and housing the university also gives us 150 RMB per month to spend in the cafeterias on campus. For 10 RMB we can access the staff buffet. We are given a tray upon which we pile rice and our selection of the contents of a row of great silver platters. These platters contain mainly chunks of vegetables and seasoned meat cooked in oil and sauces that vary in flavour from tasty to delicious. As with the Chinese food back at home the dishes mostly follow the rule of being “stuff with bits in” but the ingredients are locally sourced and rely far less on cornflower and syrup. One such local ingredient that we have all come to avoid is a thin, white root whose name doesn’t translate into English. It is used both as a main ingredient and, when chopped up, as seasoning, much in the manner that we might use salt or pepper at home. My tray is usually crammed full by the time I get half way through the buffet. I am forced to wander past tantalising dish after tantalising dish as I go to get my water, regret twinging at the sight of each one.

The locals harbour a consistent set of views about us in relation to their food. It comes as a shock to many of them that we are fully proficient in the use of chopsticks and, actually prefer them in many cases to the knife and fork. Many a restaurant owner has placed a spoon in my bowl of food whilst staring as I pinch a dumpling between the sticks and transfer it from the steaming broth into my mouth. They also, kindly, try to make us avoid the red hot chilli paste that they use to garnish many dishes although it isn’t much hotter than a slightly tangy Nandos.

Callum and Chopsticks

The first week that we spent here was filled with crash courses in traditional Chinese dining. We were stuffed, fit-to-bursting by our gracious hosts at two banquets and a barbecue. As part of a ceremonial greeting we were taken to a restaurant on our second night by the Dean and senior staff of the Foreign Languages Department for a feast presented on a lazy Susan. We each were given a deceptively tiny china pot full of rice. As the dishes were shared around the table we took some of this, and a little of that with our chopsticks (double dipping is not an issue in China, let’s hope we don’t get the flu) and we ate until we were comfortably full. The night was only just beginning. Dish after tempting dish was brought out and shared while baijiu (a sickly Chinese liqueur of 50% alcohol) ran like a waterfall.

The host (here the most senior figure, the Dean) poured tiny little shot-goblets of the stuff and passed them out to each of us. He drank a toast and we all drank. He made another toast, and we all drank again. Then he began the unenviable task of addressing us each individually – “Stephen, in your interview you were very professional. You are always smiling! I hope that we can share our different culture.” We both drank, “Callum, you are…” – And so on. After three shots the stomach began to gurgle, after five it began to churn. The smell that emanates from the drink is strong and brings together for the first time the disparate odours of aniseed and petroleum. Callum, who was experiencing some degree of culture-shock at this slightly passive-aggressive form of hospitality (it’s insulting not to drink and those who drink the most are considered quite prestigious) had to take a walk outside. I followed and shared his company as we gazed out over the river at the lit skyline of our new home. Walking back into that room was like being hit in the face by a solid wall of heat and sickly-sweet stench.

If we felt a little sick after that initial episode of well-intentioned celebration at such a distinguished restaurant, it’s nothing to how we would feel if we were less than scrupulous in our selection of dining outlet. The garage-restaurants, although cheap are as hygienic as one can hope for in this part of the world. The same cannot be said for street vendors. The head of our department, Stone sat us down during our first week and warned us about street vendors. “Always use the supermarkets to buy food. On the streets, you do not know where this food has come from. You do not know if this food is harmful to you.” This is a real shame as many side-streets are lined with cooks frying chicken, preparing chips or noodles and turning tofu over on grills. The smells that combine in the air are mouth-watering.

Even lower on the culinary pecking-order, though are the women and men who carry around massive baskets of fruit and vegetables and sell them, separated from the pavement by nothing more than thin, white cloths. The streets of China are notoriously filthy. Although regularly swept and sprayed down these are but token gestures that do little to sanitise against the endless deluge of filth. Babies and toddlers do not wear nappies in China, they instead wear baby-grows with holes at the bottom so they can defecate whenever they feel the need. The soundscape of Duyun is ever peppered with blaring car-horns and the hawking of the people before they spit on the ground. Filthy street-dogs trail around, spreading the filth in their fur and the air is filled with dust due to the construction of this developing city. It is onto these very streets that the vendors place their thin white blankets that clearly do very little to protect their fruit and vegetables from disease.

Although the words “Chinese” and “takeaway” are no doubt strictly banned on each other’s Taboo cards the British experience of Chinese cuisine is a far cry from the experiences I’ve had here. It is interesting to have a dining experience that has evolved so far from the Western idea of a good meal. Coffee and dairy and pizza are rare and very expensive whilst chopped roots, tofu and all parts of a chicken are available in abundance. I could do with a sweet-and-sour chicken-balls right about now though…