Haw Berries & Kumquats

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 organic 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. Everything is united by a sweet, cottony, dry dough– what most Chinese people think of when they think of “Western” bread.

pumpkin brioche red bean buns 2

Which is why these red bean buns are some of the best in the world. Red bean paste is all well and 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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Beautiful on the inside: Watermelon radish and purple cabbage slaw

This colorful salad caught my eye when I was wandering through the small food court above the Niujie Halal Supermarket, in the Hui Muslim neighborhood. From among the bevy of cold dishes and salads, its bright tangle of shredded purple cabbage, watermelon radish, carrots, and cucumbers was particularly inviting and lively. In a thrice the salad was ordered to instantly improve the nutrition of my late lunch, which had hitherto consisted of some too-salty beef shaomai dumplings (牛肉烧麦) and glutinous rice steamed with dates (甑糕 zenggao), both also purchased from the halal supermarket.

purple cabbage watermelon salad sliced

Later I found myself craving this salad again, and it was as easy to throw together as it is versatile. Unlike a typical cabbage slaw that’s thick with mayonnaise, it’s light, crunchy, and refreshing – just the sort of thing for a summer lunch. It also adds a fun variation to zhajiang mian (炸酱面), Beijing’s famous mixed noodle dish that’s usually tossed together with fresh slivers of cucumbers, watermelon radishes, and boiled soy beans, as well as a dark bean sauce.

On a side note, watermelon radishes are particularly associated with Beijing: they’re as cheap as chips here, and mostly found in humbler Beijing restaurants, where they generally take the form of a tangcu xinlimei (糖醋心里美), slices of radish in a sugar-and-vinegar dressing. If you’re really feeling economical, you can get a salad of just the tough outer green skin (萝卜皮).

purple cabbage watermelon radish

In Chinese, the watermelon radish is called 心里美 xinlimei, “beautiful on the inside” or “beautiful in the heart,” for the vibrant magenta heart that lies concealed within the tough green skin. Isn’t that a lovely, evocative name?

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Baking bread in China, and a country sourdough

People are always surprised when I tell them that I bake bread in China. It shouldn’t, though, come as a shock, because flour, water and yeast are integral parts of north China cuisine. Just think of mantou, or the ubiquitous baozi and shaobing. But it’s hard to make the conceptual leap from these things to bread: after all, they’re so different, despite their shared ingredients. [Edit: You can also see my guide to baking in China]

To me, there’s even more incentive to bake bread while living in China: the challenge is exciting, and the rewards – delicious bread and a new skill – are priceless. Local bakeries here favor a cottony, gormless loaf, while foreign bakeries take liberties to charge erroneous amounts for a little boule. For a fresh, crusty, wholesome loaf whose ingredients you can count on one hand, there’s only your own trusty toaster oven to look to.

chad roberston country sourdough crumb

That’s perhaps the only challenge of baking in China: the lack of proper ovens for home kitchens. Baking isn’t part of Chinese cuisine, and most kitchens here are absolutely tiny – a gas range and some decent counter space is as much as one can hope for. Only toaster ovens are available, and only in Beijing and other large cities, where baking western pastries has lately become very popular with young urbanites (mostly women, actually).

A toaster oven is well and good for cakes and cookies, but for bread it’s just not quite hot enough. Oven spring is unreliable and often lopsided: batards often rise on one end but not the other. The temperature is not quite precise, either; I rather doubt that my oven ever attains the 250°C (482°F) that it claims to reach. Grigne? Singing crust? I’ve yet to experience these things.

But there are also exciting perks to bread baking in China. I have a beautiful green marble slab that serves very well for a baking stone. I found it for RMB 30 (around 4 or 5 dollars) – thank you, construction materials market!  There’s all kinds of fun flours to experiment with: sweet potato, “naked” oat, buckwheat, glutinous rice, black rice, and an incredible variety of bean flours, although I don’t feel confident enough to formulate my own breads just yet.

Whole wheat and rye flours I procure at the Dongbei Yonghua Liangyou Shop (Northeastern Grains and Oils), run by a friendly couple who mill everything except but the white flour themselves. Lotus root flour, lotus seed flour, mung bean flour…it’s all here, as well as almonds, pumpkin seeds, oats, and their specialty, rice from the fertile plains of northeastern China. Bread flour I buy at the Tongrisheng Grain Store, which also has sesame seeds, flax seeds, and rice of all colors.

So really: everything you need is here, even the wild yeast residing in the flour. My sourdough starter is some six months old (I should have, I suppose, kept track of its birthday), and like me, it’s a born and bred Beijinger at heart. This is its latest effort, a sourdough country loaf inspired by Chad Roberston, made according to Shiao-Ping’s formula at the Fresh Loaf.

chad roberston country sourdough loaf

Thanks to the cold overnight fermentation, the crumb was very moist with a light sourdough tang, just the way I like it. I brought it to a dinner party where it was very well loved and disappeared quickly. I’m also sending it to Susan of Wild Yeast‘s Yeastspotting, a weekly showcase of bread.

Dongbei Yonghua Liangyou Shop [map]
19 Dongzhimen Nanxiaojie, Dongcheng District (150m south of Gui Jie)
Tel: (010) 8401 7569
东北永华粮油店
东城区东直门南小街19号
Tongrisheng Lianghang (Grain Store) [map]
56 Yonghegong Dajie (100m north of Beixinqiao, next to Cafe de la Poste)
Dongcheng District
Tel: (010)  6401 0473
同日升粮行
东城区雍和宫大街56号 (北新桥北100米) 

Fattie Wang’s Donkey Buns 王胖子驴肉火烧

There’s a strange competition going on. Perhaps you had not realized, but all along – at least according to Fattie Wang’s Donkey Buns (王胖子驴肉火烧) – animals have been vying for the honor of being…eaten.

wangpangzi

"My flesh is tastier than yours!"

Yes, for if you believe the posters decorating this little snack stall, nothing would please Mr. Donkey more than if you, illustrious diner, chose him over those common creatures, the cow or the pig.

Fattie Wang is partisan. “I’m the best!” and “Choose me!” proclaims Mr. Donkey from the walls. In case you are not swayed by his handsome mug (“Don’t you think I’m pretty?”), there’s also a convenient chart for you to see Donkey’s distinct advantages over his peers.

"I'm the best!"

"I'm the best!"

To wit, donkey meat is higher in water and proteins and lower in fat compared to beef, mutton, and pork. Other pictures boast of the donkey’s natural grazing lifestyle in remote grasslands and claim that the meat has aphrodisiac powers. Hence, the conclusion: “In heaven there is dragon meat, and on earth there is donkey meat.”

It’s rather hard for us to judge the accuracy of this description, having never tasted dragon. Donkey, though, is tender and juicy, and not at all tough (as I expected). There are no particularly asinine flavors; it’s rather like beef. Indeed, without knowing what it was, you might easily think it was beef.

"Do I look beautiful to you?"

"Do I look beautiful to you?"

This may come as a blow to people who grew up on Eeyore, but no one would blink an eye at the thought of eating donkey in China, though it’s not an “everyday” meat like pork or beef. Hunan is famous for its spicy “Donkey of Hunan” (湘之驴 xiang zi lü) dish, full of chili peppers and served over a small flame, while nearby Jiangxi province does a few things with donkey as well. But much more popular in Beijing is Hebei province’s lürou huoshao (驴肉火烧), braised donkey meat served in a flatbread bun (huoshao is another word for shaobing).

(Fattie) Wang Pangzi is widely thought to make some of Beijing’s best lürou huoshao. Tender chunks of braised meat are chopped with green peppers (jianjiao 尖椒) and cilantro before being stuffed inside a rectangular crispy flatbread. To ensure maximum juiciness, the meat is doused with a few spoonfuls of the braising broth.

A regular bun costs RMB 5, and a bun with leaner cuts is RMB 6. It’s delicious, a snack-sized symphony of flaky bun, fall-apart-tender meat, and fresh greens. But it still doesn’t come anwhere close to Long Xing Sheng‘s niurou huoshao (braised beef sandwiched in a sesame shaobing), which only costs RMB 4 and is one of the most amazing things you can eat in Beijing. Enough said.

There are five locations of Fattie Wang’s; the best is supposed to be the Gulou location but we went to the Dongsi shop:

Wangpangzi Lürou Huoshao [map]
92 Dongsi Beidajie (the door is actually on Dongsi Shisantiao)
Dongcheng District
Tel: 1312 156 5643
王胖子驴肉火烧
东城区东四北大街92号

Meyer lemon almond custard

I’ve been slowly going through all the lemon recipes I can think of: tarts, lemon curd, preserved lemons, lemon millet pistachio tea cakes, and not once have my China-grown Meyers disappointed, despite the assertions of a certain somebody that they’re oranges. My latest favorite are these delicate, airy custards, so creamy that you wouldn’t guess they’re dairy-free and gluten-free (but not vegan).

lemon custard in tin

While I’m not gluten-adverse – indeed, with all the bread I bake, it’s more like the exact opposite – I like playing with the properties of different flours, especially my favorite, glutinous rice flour. But I do try to avoid milk, out of safety concerns, and organic milk is out of my budget. Fortunately, Doudouchu (豆豆厨) soy milk, made with organic, non-GM soy beans and nothing else, seems to work just fine in most recipes I’ve tried. You can find them in larger Wumei (物美 Wu-mart), BHG, and Hualian (华联) stores, but they seem to be cheapest at 7-11 and Wumei (around RMB 6 for a 1L bottle).

I found my ground almonds in Ditan Park of all places, where during a recent “shopping festival” (购物节 gouwu jie) a few booths sold foodstuffs from across China – Mongolian cheese, Xinjiang raisins, Qingdao dried seafood, etc. Two booths were busy grinding the local variety of almonds into a fine white powder. These almonds, which I believe come from inside apricot kernels, are smaller and have a more perfumed flavor than its Western cousins; it’s a little more exotic, and hard to describe. I love its addition: Few matches are as ideal as the meeting of almond and lemon, and I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too many almonds.

lemon custard

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Kumquat tart

kumquat tart

I’ve grown up eating kumquats all my life, but it hadn’t ever occurred to me to do anything with them. They were usually associated with Chinese new year, when my grandparents sometimes had a little kumquat tree, its branches laden with golden fruit. But the success of the hawberry-kumquat pie, as well as a lemon tart that used not one but three whole lemons, led me to reconsider, and so was born this kumquat tart.

kumquat slice and tart

The tarts are sweet and light and just the thing for a small springtime treat. The kumquats are first sliced, then poached in syrup, which makes a nice compote on its own. In the tart, the chunks of fruit and curls of peel tease against the custard filling, a nice complement to the citrus. Another idea is to add spices – ginger, cardamom, star anise, cloves, etc. – to the poaching liquid; perhaps next time.

slicing kumquats

For me, the crust of any tart or pie is as – if not more – important as the filling. (I feel the same way about dumplings too.) This particular recipe may just become my staple: the dough is easy to handle, and the shortening results in a tender, flaky crust.  Not all shortening is created equal, though: my preferred brand is Spectrum, which is trans-fat free and made from sustainably grown palm oil from Colombia (palm plantations results in large-scale clearing of rainforests in Indonesia and Malaysia – orangutan habitat).

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