Levi’s may have replaced Mao suits on the streets of Beijing, but photographer Clinton Friedman discovers that Chinese food and the way it is eaten continue to occupy a distinctively individual place in the world .
It seemed no different from any other international-airport restaurant, sitting there waiting to be attended to. Until the menu was spread out in front of my sleepy eyes, that is. Jiaozi, guotie, gow gees, har gow, siu mai, yuan xiao, zhengjiao … and that was just the selection of dumplings.
Dumplings are everywhere in China. They are both the ultimate street food and the mandatory celebratory fare on special occasions. Not to be confused with wontons, Chinese dumplings (see image to the right) typically consist of a ground meat or vegetable filling wrapped in thinly rolled dough, which is sealed before being steamed, pan- or deep-fried. (Won tons, by comparison, have thinner "skins" and are usually served in broth.)
MUST READ: CLINT AND ED'S CHINESE WONTONS and look out for mushroom and coconut wontons from Woolworths.
DUMPLINGS, DUMPLINGS AND MORE DUMPLINGS
Come the Chinese New Year, families across northern China turn their kitchens into veritable dumpling factories, churning out hundreds of the round or crescentshaped parcels (said to resemble the ancient gold and silver ingot once used as currency in China) for family banquets – it is believed that the more dumplings made, the richer one will be in the year to come.
The Chinese have enjoyed dumplings since at least the first century AD, when, according to legend, Dr Zhang Zhongjing, a Hippocrates-like figure in Chinese history, discovered them while researching Chinese medicine. The dumplings, the story goes, were a cure for both typhoid and frostbitten ears, which is perhaps why they bear an uncanny resemblance to ears. I try not to think about this as I eat them.
MUST MAKE: Emma Chen of The Red Chamber's pork dumplings
A FOOD HAWKER PEDDLES HIS WARES IN THE HEIBI PROVINCE
Staring through the taxi window en route to the hotel, I watch dusk fall in Beijing: the unremitting toing and froing of aeroplanes against a bruised steel sky; the chaos of the city’s streets as torrents of workers head home on bicycles, like flocks of migratory birds, leaving colourfully coiffed iPod-sporting youths to take ownership of the night.
A MIX OF OLD AND NEW; EAST AND WEST
There’s no denying that the mighty wave of Western culture has hit urban China in the 20-odd years since the implementation of its opening-up policy.
But, while the new generation of Chinese may favour burgers from one of the six hundred McDonald’s or thousand KFCs in the country, the age-old predilection for elaborate culinary ceremonies and daring combinations of food is alive and well.
THE BUSINESS OF FOOD
A business meeting proves the point. A speedy drive through the perplexing labyrinth of nameless streets delivers us at our destination – a carpet-weaving factory in the heart of the city. After initial introductions, we are presented an exceptionally large display of food.
We sit round a circular table made of exotic wood, the top of which can be rotated by hand to allow diners access to all parts of the communal feast. It is here that I get my first taste of sea worms (not bad with heaps of garlic).
In China, banqueting is a popular form of business entertaining. And it is not uncommon for a host to order enough food for ten people at a table of five. During a meal, as many as 20 courses can be served. The best policy is to lightly sample each dish. By leaving a "clean plate", it is perceived that you were not given enough food – the worst form of insult.
To say that the Chinese take their food seriously is something of an understatement. When greeting one another, the first question asked is not, "How are you?", but, "Have you taken the meal?".
THE CHINESE WILL EAT ANYTHING ON FOUR LEGS, OR?
Although there’s an old saying that the Chinese will eat anything on four legs, except tables, to be fair, a typical Chinese meal consists largely of grains, pork and vegetables, with a bit of fish or seafood thrown in, depending on the region.
But, as food writer Fuchsia Dunlop so eruditely put it, "There is little that can’t be considered a potential ingredient". So, while "most people eat dog meat and donkey penis rarely, if at all, there is no taboo in China about the idea of eating them".
A Beijing food court, stumbled upon quite by chance, Here I am offered everything from dried shark fin (see image to the right) to a colossal live fish taken straight from a miniature aquarium.
But it’s not just what is eaten that can, at times, leave us Westerners squirming in our food comfort zones, the Chinese method of eating also occasionally challenges our notions of propriety.
MIND YOUR CHINESE MANNERS
The sound effects first caught my attention. Slurping is de rigueur among the Chinese, for practical reasons. It’s a way of introducing cool air into your mouth to cool the noodles and broth (if it’s a noodle soup), as Chinese food is usually served piping hot.
And don’t be thrown off guard if your Chinese host uses his own chopsticks to put food in your bowl. This is actually a sign of politeness. In fact, the use of chopsticks is considered evidence that, in China, civilised behaviour has replaced a culture marked by brutish knife toting.
Even Confucius taught that "the honourable and upright man keeps well away from both the slaughterhouse and the kitchen. And he allows no knives on his table". That said, I can’t help but empathise with Asian-food aficionados who won’t go near a plate of ginger beef without their kuàizi. (The word "chop" is pidgin English for "kuài", which means "quick" or "speedy").
Just as coffee loses some of its tangy essence when served in a polystyrene cup, Chinese cuisine simply tastes better when eaten with chopsticks.
THE MORE THINGS CHANGE...
Perhaps it has something to do with having to work that bit harder for your food. Beyond the city, on a journey south to visit an agave farm in the Fujian province, I encounter a man deeply engaged in a strange dance with the gentle breeze.
So absorbed is he in the fluid, bird-like movements of t’ai chi, he is completely oblivious to my inquisitive Western gaze and furiously snapping camera.
For me, he comes to symbolise all that modern China stands for – a vast country, which, like its cuisine, constantly adapts to the assault of global change, yet, at its heart, retains a unique sense of self.
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