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Purslane Pancakes 马齿苋饼

purslane pancakes horizontal

I can still remember – quite clearly! – the first time I ate purslane. The ayi who worked for my family had brought back a bag of purslane from her home province, somewhere in southern China; obviously at the age of eight my memory for food trumps my memory for Chinese geography. She made them into golden crisp purslane bing (饼), or pancakes, and I was instantly smitten: It was somehow decadent, as pancakes were a rare treat, but also very healthful from the succulent crunch of the purslane.

purslane in cup

Indeed, purslane is about one of the most healthful vegetables that one can eat. It has more omega-3 fatty acids than any other plants, and a whole lot of other anti-oxidants and anti-mutagenic nutrients, minerals, and vitamins. Apparently, it was also Gandhi’s favorite vegetable, according to this informative article. In Chinese, it’s considered a wild vegetable (yecai 野菜), called machixian 马齿苋, or “horse teeth amaranth” – perhaps because the little leaves look like horses’ teeth?

Despite all its benefits, purslane has long been thought of as a weed in the US, and only now have people started eating it. In China, of course, we’ve known we can eat purslane for a while, but Beijing is not the best place to find something that needs green fields and wild spaces. (And even if you were to find wild vegetables growing by the road in Beijing, would you eat it?)

So remarkably, I hadn’t eaten purslane for more than 17 years. That one-time experience had made such an impression on me, though, that as soon as it was available from my organic farm supplier, I knew I had to get it. Since then, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to play with purslane: in salads with a vinegar-soy sauce dressing and thousand-year-eggs muddled in, stir-fried with peppers, and slowly simmered in a multi-grain rice congee.

But of course, I had to go back to the pancakes that made me fall in love with purslane in the first place. The Internet was not forthcoming with recipes or advice, only informing me that this was a traditional way of eating purslane in the countryside. So I recreated them using an eight-year-old’s memory – and I must say, I have quite a good memory.

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All I want this summer: iTea 找茶

Four or five years ago, you used to be able to count with one hand the number of icy-dessert shops in Beijing. Baobing (shaved ice 刨冰) was something I discovered in a tiny Taiwanese snack shop in what passed for Chinatown in Dallas (this was ’96). Quality fresh fruit shakes? Nonexistent. Shaved ice desserts seemed to be the sole provenance of Bellagio.

itea cup

And now, in just the past year, we have a number of respectable shops serving refreshing, fruity icy treats. The latest, and my current favorite, is iTea (找茶), which aggressively expanded into Beijing a few months ago (from Wuhan, of all places!) with six new locations.

iTea  seems to have hit upon a rather winning combination of clean, bright aesthetics; high-quality teas, ices, and slushes; and low prices. The desserts here aren’t really “refined” – not like Din Tai Fung’s stupendous ices with their individually well-crafted ingredients –  but they’re well made in their simplicity. The ice is very soft and fine, though usually I prefer more “powdery” ices that have more of a “crunch” when you bite into it, like eating snow. The flavors are true, the mango chunks generous and juicy, and that’s all I really need on a day to day basis.

Perhaps the only downside is that all but one of their locations are inside malls, and thus overwhelmed with shoppers on the weekends. Hence, I generally repair to the sole non-mall locale, on Gulou Dongdajie, next to Cafe Alba. Among the mall shops I’ve visited, Oriental Plaza is relatively more peaceful, Joy City (Xidan) excessively crowded. Seating is pretty limited, so one just slurps and goes.

I may also shamelessly admit that I’ve gone through half the menu already. I’ll add new items as I try them, too.

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Moving Day Cookies (Ginger-Nut-Butter-Apricot-Oat Snaps!)

Ginger cookies with apricot, almond butter, oats, and spelt
I hate moving. Over my four years in Beijing, I’ve moved four times. The first time I had a few suitcases and moved across the length of the city. The other three times I’ve moved a considerably smaller distance with considerably more stuff.

There’s nothing worse than moving the dregs of a flour sack, or the tail-end of a jar of jam, or a knob of butter – especially not in this sweltering weather. So I needed to eat a lot of things, and quickly.

And thus were born these ginger-nut-butter-apricot-oat cookies, with ingredients willfully substituted to use up this or that. The results were so mind-bogglingly delicious, however, that this recipe is definitely going to be more than an improvisational one-off. All my moving-inspired changes seem to make a tastier cookie, moist and spicy with a hint of nuttiness. They’re healthful too, thanks to the almond butter, spelt, and oats. I can’t imagine wanting gingersnaps any other way, right now. (Ask me again in two months. I get bored.)

Ginger Snaps with Almond Butter

Moist and spicy, the cookies have a hint of nutty goodness and are chewy from the oats. The long ingredient list isn’t intimidating – and if need be, you can always go back to the original recipe from David Lebovitz. He also gives American volume measurements. Ingredients #1-3 were originally 280g of flour, etc.

140g organic white flour
60g organic spelt flour
80g oats
1½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cardamom
130g brown sugar
40g grated ginger root
½ tsp vanilla extract
75g butter
75g almond butter* or peanut butter
80g apricot jam
1 egg

* Roasted almond butter can be easily made through roasting almonds in the oven until golden, and then processing in the blender until it becomes buttery in texture. Super easy – I’ve been making my own nut butter this way for months.

Follow the instructions as given by David Lebovitz in the original recipe, around which I loosely based my variation. I’d like to try this with all almond butter or peanut butter too.

Tomorrow, when the apricots come

Hawberries & Kumquats is overwhelmed with moving house and will be taking a short break. (The complexity of apartment hunting in Beijing could be an entire blog subject.) In the meantime, here are a few tidbits to mull over, and I’ll be back in a week or two.

  • Apricots, apricots, apricots. I can’t get enough of them. They’re delicious in jam and tarts, but even more amazing when they’re baked, which concentrates the sweetness and tartness. It’s incredibly easy, and so forgiving, too, of improvisation: Quarter enough apricots to almost fill a ramekin, and mix in a spoonful of sugar and a dollop of butter. Then top with chopped almonds, and bake at 200°C (400°F) until bubbly and soft, around 15 minutes or so. Foolproof. I bet it’d be good with pistachios too.
  • Somehow I’d forgotten about the existence of Takenosuke, but such a slight was obviously undeserved. I certainly won’t let it slide off my radar again, now that I know you can add mochi to your okonomiyaki. What could be better than chunks of gooey sticky rice in an eggy pancake stuffed with whatever you please? The avocado salad here is also pretty addictive: it uses the kind of creamy salad dressing that I generally abhor, but it goes very well here with bright pearls of fish roe and avocado.
  • Mint gummy bears. A revelatory discovery when eating a variety pack of Aji Ichiban (優之良品 youzhi liangpin) gummy candies (purchased from 7-11). The translucent green bears didn’t ooze the expected composite fruit flavor, but packed a distinctively minty punch that instantly woke me up from afternoon lethargy. Think of it as a mildly chewy mint. Did you know that gummy bears were invented in Germany? They’re called Gummibären.
  • The Village Cafe has a great lunch set at RMB 48 for one course, 68 for two, and 88 for three. The Opposite House is always a pleasure to visit, for its clean, soaring architecture. I never get tired of admiring the lobby, and there’s rotating displays of art as well. This time there were silvery over-sized insects – at once menacing, fragile, and jewel-like. As for the food, the menu changes but the white chocolate cheesecake seems to be a stand-by, and a well-deserved one at that.  And I loved the macadamia nut-encrusted sea bream – the crumbly nuts are a delightful contrast with the tender, flaky fish.
  • More on mochi, obviously a favorite theme here: Shinyeh has the most delicious peanut-dusted mochi I’ve had in Beijing. Firm, soft, chewy, and tender all at once, this is mochi heaven. It’s a wonder I haven’t come back yet for them. They also do a variety of other Taiwanese street favorites and snacks, as well as fancier dishes.
  • The peaches are here: Beijing peaches are some of the most delicious in the world. Granted, I grew up eating them, so I may be a bit biased. They seem to have so much more, so much more real peach flavor, than a supermarket peach in the US – which I also grew up eating. Beijing peaches are just so  properly seasonal, around only for the magic months of July and August. My favorite kind is the Jiubao (九宝), exceptionally soft and oozing with juice.

Awfully Chocolate

I’m feeling anxious and nervous before the upcoming Germany-Spain game of the World Cup – betrayed by our own octopus! – so I’m trying to distract myself. And what better distraction on this hot and humid day than ice cream? Awfully Chocolate is known more for their decadent chocolate cakes, but they also make some of Beijing’s best dark chocolate ice cream.

awfully chocolate ice cream

i can't scoop ice cream to save my life

The  ice cream is called hei 黑 or “black” – appropriate for the intensity of the chocolate they use, which according to their website is 70% cocoa Belgian chocolate. The texture is perfect, dense and rich. Best of all, it isn’t cloyingly sweet like many ice creams, allowing the bitter notes of the chocolate to speak for itself. Each bite is a blissful excursion into the essence of chocolate infused into cold creaminess.

awfully chocolate in takeaway container

A pint costs RMB 80, and comes in a cute little takeaway container. They give you a small insulated bag so you can get it home without a meltdown. Or you can get a scoop for RMB 25. It’s expensive, but oh so worth it. Their cakes, too, are worth a try, especially for a special occasion.

Awfully Chocolate is a Singaporean chain with locations in Beijing, Shanghai, Dalian, and Guangzhou, as well as in Hong Kong and Taiwan. Their stores are minimalist white to the point of being sanatorium like – perhaps a commentary on just how crazy about chocolate they are?

Click here for their Beijing store locations and hours. You can also order online with delivery service.

Therese’s Organic Farm, and a very large loaf

Things have been a little slow around here, as Haw Berries is currently infatuated with the World Cup, but that doesn’t mean delectable things aren’t being made and consumed anymore. On the contrary, my organic farm delivery now gives me more time than ever to indulge my football obsession (as well as a few other, slightly more worthwhile projects).

But it is really something, to crave a snack, wander over to the fridge, and find fresh, organic, locally grown apricots waiting inside. With just a little wash, they’re ready to eat; no pesticides, no peeling. The easiest treat ever, and also the most delicious: sweet and tart, delicately bursting with juice, the loveliest shade of glowing orange.

I have Therese to thank for this ready ambrosia in my fridge. I first heard about her from Eileen, who raved about her eggs and flour. Therese’s farm is in Fangshan District, on a plot of land that has not received chemical inputs for 10 years. She’s very passionate about organic farming, and strongly believes – and she’s right, of course – that China’s current industrialized farming methods are killing the earth. In a country where farming is viewed as dirty, undignified, low-class work, it’s a pleasure to meet someone who takes so much pride and happiness from tending the land.

So now we receive weekly deliveries of vegetables of our choice, which can sometimes backfire as I like to order the unheard-of and un-tried specimens. In late spring we dabbled in not one but two kinds of thistles, which taste about as tough and prickly as they look. Nevertheless, we had to try it as Ji 蓟 (“thistle”) is the earliest name of present-day Beijing (from 473 BC). Isn’t that amusing? I’m going to start calling Beijing Thistletown.

The two large bags of thistles flummoxed us for some time, as did another large bag of plantago – a weed whose sheer prevalence, if not flavor, would make it an excellent candidate to solve world hunger. Then we moved on to beet greens, amaranth leaves, mizuna (a Japanese lettuce), and whatever else struck my fancy before I finally settled down to more conventional vegetables like spinach and crown-daisy chrysanthemum (tonghao 茼蒿). No, really, most of Therese’s vegetables are quite normal, like cucumbers and broccoli and tomatoes. I just gravitate towards trying new stuff.

Most of this organic bounty is available at the marvelous price of RMB 5 per 500g, which is less than a dollar per pound. This is not only amazing by international standards, but it’s also around one-fifth the price of organic vegetables at upscale supermarkets like BHG or Lohao City. Fruits are more expensive, but not outrageously so.

That’s not all. Therese’s Farm also has eggs (chicken, duck, and goose), chickens, ducks, raw milk, tofu, cornmeal, noodles, buns, dried beans, and, most exciting of all for me, whole wheat flour and white flour. This was actually the first thing I tried – they come in cloth sacks, a really nice touch. But I somehow ordered three times the amount I needed, and suddenly had a ton of flour on my hands.

hamelman's pointe-a-calliere

Fortunately, I had been eyeing Hamelman’s Pointe-a-Calliere Miche for a long time, and my overflowing flour stock gave me the perfect reason to tackle this loaf  with 86% whole wheat, a hydration of 84% (!), and a total weight of 1.6kg. I’ve never worked with a loaf of such high hydration (or such size), but Shiao-Ping’s recipe and instructions made it fairly easy. It wasn’t the gloppy messy that occurred when I made ciabatta, for example, and the gluten development came together nicely. It even moved onto the oven stone sans peel without going all pear-shaped.

I’m not sure whether it’s the flour, the technique, or the warm weather, but I got better oven spring and a more open crumb in this loaf than any others I’ve ever made before. I can’t wait to try again: I think it looks like a perfect loaf for a Great Wall camp-out.

bread sliced

Therese’s Farm
will2bdone [ at ] yahoo.com
Tel: 1370 1277 398
天福园
(张女士)

Cat’s Ears Noodles (猫耳朵), or pasta, Chinese-style

My mom told me that when Marco Polo brought the recipe for xian’r bing (馅饼, a stuffed pie) to Italy, he forgot how to put the filling inside the dough. So he decided to put it on top – and thus was pizza born.

It’s not just my mom. It is a popularly held truth in China that Marco Polo introduced Italy to Chinese staples such as noodles, dumplings, and flatbreads (饼 bing). Only Mr. Polo didn’t get the recipes down quite right, so the dumplings became square and flat, the noodles got all out of shape, and the flatbreads acquired new and exciting fillings on the outside. Without Marco, so the story goes, Italy would be lacking of some of its most popular foods.

Now, we all know that’s not really true (in fact, archaelogoical evidence dates Italian pasta-making to way, way before Marco Polo), but it’s a fun story nonetheless. We Chinese people sometimes enjoy thinking that we invented everything. The right lesson, however, should perhaps be one of shared culture and mutual influence.

dried mao'erduo noodles in bowl

Just look at these cat’s ears noodles (猫耳朵) from Shanxi (山西) province. Don’t they resemble Italian conchigliette? (Certainly more than they resemble cat’s ears.) Perhaps we can only conclude that everyone realizes the utility of scoop-shaped noodles when it comes to optimizing sauce intake.

Fresh cat’s ears noodles don’t resemble conchigliette as much: The “scoop” is less pronounced, and the dough is thicker and chewier. They’re nearly impossible to find outside of Shanxi restaurants, so it was quite a delight to stumble upon this package of the dried variety in a “vinegar supermarket” that not only sold RMB 60 bottles of vinegar but also other specialty products from this province of coal mines and mouth puckering condiments.

Made by a company called “Big Granary” (大粮仓 Da Liangcang), the noodles have a healthful, simple ingredients list, blissfully free of chemicals and unrecognizable characters. The multigrain variety, which we picked over whole wheat, contained mung bean flour, buckwheat, millet flour, whole wheat flour, and perhaps some oat flour as well (I can’t quite remember).

cooked noodles in blue bowl

We aimed for a northwestern feel by serving them with a spicy, cumin-tinged sauce of tomatoes onions, garlic scapes (蒜苔 suantai, the edible sprout of garlic), and long green peppers. The noodles were actually quite fragile, probably due to the lack of white flour. With just the tiniest bit of overcooked inattention, they fell apart and the water became gummy. But after a flash boil no longer than a couple of minutes, they turned out delightfully, firm and lightly chewy – perfect if one wanted something pasta-like without the carbon footprint of being transported from Italy.

cooked maoerduo noodles

The Shanxi Vinegar Supermarket (山西醋超市 Shanxi Cu Caoshi) is great fun if you’re anything like me and take an encyclopedic enjoyment from foreign/specialty food shops. It’s not at all supermarket like, but the small shop packs in multiple varieties of vinegars in everything from liter bottles to banquet-style ceramic liquor bottles. Aside from the noodles (RMB 12.5), we also picked up a gingery amber-hued “salad” (凉拌 liangban) vinegar and an aged rice vinegar for cooking, both around RMB 8. Who could say no to that?

Shanxi Vinegar Supermarket (Shanxi Cu Caoshi) [map]
7 Jingshan Xijie (the street that runs west of Jingshan, just a little north of the park’s west gate)
Xicheng District
Tel: (010) 6406 3251
山西醋超市
西城区景山西街7号

Poyanghu Dajiulou 鄱阳湖大酒楼

A friend once described Jiangxi to me as a province of lush mountains and precarious roads, revolutionary fervor and accidental scorpions, unwanted late-night hotel visitors and pristine natural landscapes. It has historically been poor, a quality reflected in its food: there’s nothing like an explosion of hot peppers to make your plain white rice go down easier (this quality is called 下饭, xia fan, literally “down rice”).

Perhaps as a result, there are few restaurants celebrating Jiangxi cuisine, though the Communists’ starvation diet while hiding out in the province has long been immortalized in the revolutionary classic “Pumpkin Soup and Red Rice”¹ (南瓜汤红米饭). That may have been a rallying song for the Red Army’s embattled guerrilla days, but it wasn’t enough to launch Jiangxi’s culinary fame. Whatever the reason, neighboring Hunan seems to have decisively surpassed Jiangxi in its quest for domination in the spicy revolutionary cuisine category. Which is a little unfair: Jiangxi food is far more than hot peppers and boiled pumpkins.

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Pumpkin brioche red bean buns 南瓜布里欧修豆沙包

I am quite ready to declare this to be the best brioche dough in the world.

As cinnamon rolls, they’re divine. As a tart base, it’s pillowy and sweetly accommodating. In simple brioche form, the essence of the dough shines through: The crumb is light, airy, and moist; fragrantly rich but not at all heavy. It doesn’t weigh in your stomach afterwards – this is one buttery treat that tastes delightfully guilt-free. The pumpkin is present more as an ineffable depth and fragrance, rather than a distinct flavor.

pumpkin brioche red bean buns

Such inherent perfection was begging to exercise its talents in other arenas. What couldn’t it elevate to new heights? After making a double batch of cinnamon rolls, as per request, for a party, I was ready to try something new with the remaining dough.

pumpkin brioche red bean bun - interior

I’m usually quite the indecisive one, but this I knew in an instant. Red bean buns (豆沙包 dousha bao) are ubiquitous in bakeries here, but I tend to shun them. I don’t mean traditional pastry shops (which make their own delightful flaky red bean pastries) but rather the Chinese take on Western bakeries. They make things like pineapple buns, croissants, and egg tarts, as well as sweet buns embedded with various permutations of corn and sausage. Cream generally turns up in the most unexpected places too.

They’re not bad, per se, just made according to local taste. Still, it’s interesting that when many Chinese people think of a Western-style bread, they think of a sweet bun with a dry, cottony crumb.

pumpkin brioche red bean buns 2

All well and good, but I just want a quality red bean bun, and for me, that means quality dough. Red bean paste is nice, but what’s a filling without its shell? A pie without crust? A dumpling without its wrapper? A travesty, you will agree.

Which is, of course, why this pumpkin brioche dough is just what every sweet bun deserves.

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Yurts, coal barons, and mutton at the Ordos restaurant (Ruxiang Piaopiao 乳香飘飘)

Ordos, in central Inner Mongolia, is perhaps one of the more surreal places in China one could visit. It’s known for, among other things, vast coal reserves and mines, the mausoleum of Genghis Khan, a new, expensive, and completely uninhabited ghost city, a renewable energy park totalling some 11,900 megawatts of power, and a contemporary art & architecture complex funded by a dairy king. And it’s all in the desert, in the middle of nowhere. That’s the power of Chinese officialdom for you: anything can be built, anywhere, to prove the power [and corruption] of middling official Z.

In its own way, the restaurant run by the Ordos government’s representative office in Beijing is no less surreal, tucked inside a 1980s-style apartment complex. After walking through the derelict corridors of the Ordos guesthouse, we found ourselves in a cluttered courtyard, lined with not one but eight yurts.

yurts

Named after various famous grasslands, the yurts are dim, musty, and somewhat grungy. We were pleased; this was exactly the way it had been in Inner Mongolia: authenticity was assured. Nonetheless, we chose to sit outside.

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