Postcards from the ‘Jing: WTF Did I Just Eat?!
From blueberry-flavored potato chips to ‘crotchless’ baby pants, our intrepid reporter “JB” chronicles the weird and the wonderful from the Chinese capital. She sends us Postcards from the ‘Jing.
When I came to Beijing I didn’t know what to expect in terms of food. I’m a meat n’ potatoes gal, so I was a bit scared that I wouldn’t be able to eat much here, especially if it was unidentifiable and strange-tasting. I know, it’s very small-minded of me, but I couldn’t help it.
Truth be told, though: The food here is actually pretty damn tasty.
On any given day I eat amazing dishes like caramelized eggplant, Peking/Beijing duck, steamed buns stuffed with pork or eggs and spinach, braised beef with potatoes and carrots, or my personal favorite: scrambled eggs with cooked tomatoes.
People here seem very aware of the medicinal properties of food. Every time I eat something, I’m told that such-and-such is “good for my stomach” or such-and-such is “good for my brain.” When it comes to eating meat, my friend Jing says that the general belief is the body’s organs can be nourished by eating particular animal parts.
Speaking of animal parts, last week I ate some things I never thought my mouth would encounter.
I was at a dinner with my Chinese colleagues, courtesy of The Company I Work For. All I was told beforehand was that we were going to eat spicy hotpot – a favorite here in China. Hotpot is like Chinese fondue: meat and vegetables are cooked in a boiling pot of liquid, which can range from mild to very spicy. Like many of the cuisines here, this one is associated with a region; in the case of hotpot, it’s Sichuan Province.
The restaurant we go to is called Haidilaohuoguo, a wildly popular hotpot chain here in Beijing. We’re seated in a private room, and I’m handed an apron to wear. Colleagues who cannot detach themselves from their cell phones for the meal are given a little plastic sleeve to put them in. I realize at this point that this could be messy.
As pictured above, there’s a giant pot in the middle of the table, and it’s divided in two: spicy on the left, mild on the right. The idea with hotpot is you throw the goodies in the pot, let ‘er cook for a bit, then fish out what you want and dip it in a sauce (the sauce is key, especially if you’re putting on a brave face for your Chinese colleagues).
The first thing to go into the pot is jellied duck blood. Oh yeah. Duck blood. In jellied form. It’s bright red like fresh cranberries, a slightly horrifying image to behold. But at this point I’m keeping an open mind.
The Jell-O-like chunks of blood slide smoothly into the pot and, after a few minutes, I retrieve a bite-sized piece. It doesn’t look terribly appealing because it turns gray during the cooking process. When I eat it, pretending I didn’t just put BLOOD in my mouth, it doesn’t really taste like anything and the texture was very soft. One of my colleagues says, “See? It tastes like tofu!” which I believe is the Chinese equivalent to our “It tastes like chicken!”
Next up was a foreign meat that’s presented on a dish in long pink strings, which my colleagues inform me is “duck guts.” Into the pot the guts go, and after a short time, I chopstick myself a piece, dip it in my sauce, and chow down. Again it doesn’t really taste like anything in particular, but it’s got a very tough texture. I lean over to my colleague Yang and say, “This is interesting.” He replies, “Sometimes you have to cover it up with a lot of sauce and it makes it really delicious.” Exactly, my friend.
After that we’re presented with a dish full of duck tongues. It looks like the tongues were ripped right out of the pour animals’ mouths from all the way back in the throat. (If you’re gagging right now, I’m sorry.) Sure, I just ate a mouthful of duck blood, but this really makes me feel badly for these poor animals, so I pass. That isn’t to say my cohorts didn’t get a lot of tongue.
Soon we move on to the highlight of the evening: pig brains. As my Sichuanese coworker Ning declared earlier in the evening, “I love brains!” ‘Nuff said. The waitress slides a plateful of pink brains gently from the dish into the pot, successfully avoiding any splatter, as my boss starts egging me on to try it.
The brains take the longest to cook: 10 minutes. When it’s ready, half a brain is ladled up and put on my plate. I cautiously pinch off a little corner between my chopsticks and I can tell it’s mushy. Ew. I pull my small piece of brain and a string of membrane snaps from one to the other. Double-ew.
Okay, moment of truth: I dip my piece in sauce and take a bite. It’s super-mushy and it has a strange taste. I chew and swallow while my colleagues look at me for a reaction. I recall my face slowly turning from a pensive look into an uncomfortable smirk. The aforementioned Ning is pigging out on her… well, pig brains.
After that exciting pig-brain climax, we come down by boiling up some lettuce (I know – weird!) and mushrooms to finish out the meal. There, I did it. Hey, that wasn’t a bad experience at all.
I’m pretty sure this is only the beginning of my foray into things I’ve never eaten before. If millions of Chinese eat this stuff and love it, how bad can it be? It’s funny, I used to be very picky about what I ate back home, but I think the geographical shift makes me a bit more open-minded.
Today, I really try not to judge. Or gag.
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