La Jornada: From scorpions to uncertain drinks: an encounter with the peculiar cuisine of Beijing

Beijing. The sensation of having drunk a rotten egg remains like a stigma on the palate. A liquid that seems as benign as horchata or oatmeal water, ideal for cooling off on a spring afternoon in Beijing, is actually discovered to be one of the most traumatic culinary memories that a person can face.

Fermented bean milk – one of the traditional drinks of ancient China and which has now become a joke for tourists browsing Qianmen, a street adjacent to the Forbidden City and which preserves the architecture of old Beijing – tastes, and above all smells, like what you would think a rotten egg that has been swimming for hours in drainage water would taste like.

The gulp comes before the hit of smell causes you to gag. “Did you drink that, how is it possible?”, a young Chinese woman who knows the reputation of this drink will judge with a laugh. The trauma to the palate comes from the mental association with which it is consumed; At first glance it might seem like a creamy, sweet drink, like the one prepared with rice and cinnamon in Mexico. The truth is that the sensation is very different, but it still has a deep historical skein.

Fermented bean milk (douzhi) has its origins at least as far back as the Jin Dynasty (1115 to 1234); Later, during the court of Emperor Qianlong, of the Qing dynasty (1644 to 1912), it came to be positioned as a palace drink. Currently, some of the oldest inhabitants of the city continue to drink it without the qualms that it generates for new generations. It appeals to its digestive properties; Some city gastronomic guides even emphasize the “acquired taste” required for voluntary consumption.

Beyond the, very literal, bitter pill of bean milk, the street cuisine in Beijing is coarse and authentic like few others. Almost in front of the carts selling this drink you can find small markets selling typical dishes: black tofu, lacquered duck “burritos”, lamb tripe (baodu), meat skewers seasoned with cumin and spice, steamed buns (baozis), candied fruits (tanghulu) and a little further on, scorpion, silkworm, cricket and, why not, centipedes.

The sign already makes it clear: “No photos” (not photos). The stand is a magnet for tourists looking to document their “daring.” The flag of silkworms for 25 yuan (almost 65 pesos), the same as those of crickets as big as baby lobsters and those of small battleships that look like cousins ​​of cockroaches. Now, if the goal is to take dark entomophagy seriously, there are also scorpions and centipedes for 50 yuan each (around 130 pesos).

The truth is that if the insect to be tried is ordered with spice, the latter is so strong and with a predominant taste of cumin, that it covers up any poisonous flavor and what remains is the sensation of crunch. Once the sale has been made, the shopkeepers can even joke with the tourists who come to their stalls, let them take photos, push them to spend a few more yuan on the curiosity of testing their gastronomic limits.

Except for those couple of extreme examples – which have their most important places on Qianmen and Wangfuyin streets, and which are actually more aimed at a tourist market –, Beijing’s street cuisine is diverse like few others and hardly a melting pot of the even coarsest that is Chinese food. There the fluffy baozis and comforting noodle broths are just hints.

A culinary history of 5 thousand years

Well after the domestication of rice in the region, about 10 thousand years ago, Chinese gastronomy has a history of at least 5 thousand years, which has become a sign of identity as unifying as it is diverse in the regions that comprise a country of 9.6 million square kilometers.

In an effort to group together the most outstanding expressions, there are eight major traditional cuisines in China. There is Shichuan, considered the spiciest and which has the characteristic sign in its green pepper; that of Zhejiang, rich in fish and seafood; that of Fujian; Hunan, Jiangsu; Anhui; Shandong; and Guandong, or Cantonese, which is the most similar to Asian cuisine that can be found for decades in Mexico.

Among them there is a way of preparation that is quite generalized, although it is usually identified mainly with Sichuan cuisine. Hot pot (huo guo) is a descriptive name but not enough to explain this culinary ritual.

Hot pot (huo guo) begins with a hot pot in the center of a table; Inside there are compartments for different broths. Of the latter there are simple ones, like just hot water; but also with tomato, or with mushrooms; or there are spicy ones, where the protagonist is the famous Sichuan pepper.

However, beyond the preparation method, an important part of hot pot is the way in which each person cooks the food they will eat, practically taking it from the pot to their mouth. The diners, all around the table, add to the broth of their choice some of the foods prepared for cooking – lamb, stomach, chicken, fish, shrimp, vegetables.

Like any society that is known to be ancient, there are studies that indicate that huo guo became popular during the Tang dynasty (618-907), especially in northern China, as a preparation method that not only allowed food to be cooked, but also to maintain a source of heat in the rooms.

In that same culinary event, more than a thousand years later, some sectors of Chinese society see in huo guo a way to present their culture and traditions to foreigners. “Relations between Mexico and China are good. Relations between Brazil and China are good,” a young Chinese woman will say in a rather solemn mood to her companions.

Then he will finish clarifying that it is not a joke. That kind of purple tofu that your Latin American guests have just gobbled down without any catlike sense, is indeed duck blood.

“Mmmm, delicious,” the companions will respond, lengthening the eme as much as possible, in an effort to preserve the solemn mood around the hot pot.