Baizu wok cooking 白族菜
Biking to open-air markets pt. 1
At the end of the year, my friends and I packed our panniers. We’d decided to ride our bikes up to Eryuan county in Yunnan province, a route that would take us 70km north.
The destination was hot springs, and the start of the route the west side of Erhai, a vast alpine fault lake that backdrops Dali city and once a source of local sustenance with cormorant fishing. After leaving the breezy blue coast with its Santorini-style B&Bs and coffee shops, we crossed northwest into knottier mountain roads, threading through sun-baked villages and up the dry scrubby foothills of Mt. Cang.
Northwest Yunnan province is home to several of China’s largest minority ethnic groups, including the Bai (白族) people, who are native to the region, and the Hui (回族) people, who are descendants of traders from Persia and Central Asia and traditionally practice Islam. We could identify the latter by the mosques in the villages and the clothing: Hui women wear headscarves and the men round white skullcaps, taqiyah. The mosques resembled traditional Buddhist-style temples with flared roofs, tiered pagodas and walled courtyards, but if we looked closely you could spot the ornamental domes and miniature minarets. Occasionally we’d hear calls to prayer from the village PA systems.
As we went higher, the low clouds turned to fog. We saw goats. We followed a man herding cows on a moped. In the mountains, the villages were so quiet I felt like we were intruding. People seem to know each other in a way where a stranger becomes a person of curiosity. We passed a construction site where an old man sat outside on a couch he'd hauled out to look at the view, and he pointed directions for us, smiling like a king on a throne. "Come visit again when the roads are done," he said.
My knee-jerk reaction to seeing smoke is fear. I was in LA over the holidays and my partner's family had to evacuate from the Eaton wildfire (they're safe, their home is safe, thankfully), but it's made me think about the cultural fearlessness (and carelessness) around fire here in Yunnan, where people burn things everywhere. Villagers burn paper money on the side of the road, they torch joss paper in blackened kettles, they set off firecrackers to ward off evil spirits, they cook with live flames, they toss cigarette stubs on the ground, they burn incense in little alcoves and roadside altars. During the Bai Torch Festival (huobajie) in August, kids run around fire with faces covered in sooty powder, and people hold torches made of wormwood to strangers’ legs to drive away evil spirits and bring them good luck, particularly for new mothers and their babies. Burning wood in Bai culture represents the release of negative energy and the welcoming of the positive; flames signify renewal and bring blessings. Meanwhile, wildfire warnings are posted everywhere in Mt. Cang and motion-detecting loudspeakers go off when you approach. The dichotomy is primeval: we fear fire, we need fire. I still get nervous smelling smoke in the air.
By the time we descended to the market the sun was fierce overhead and we had shed layers of clothing. I was dazed from altitude and carb-depleted. It was time for lunch.
Shabajie (沙坝街) is far enough from the usual itineraries that it rarely gets tourists. Under the pavilions, families sat at low tables and plastic stools in the open air. The vibe was noisy and convivial like a neighborhood party. Cooks flung woks and banged their spatulas; smoke warped the air. Some guests were washing dishes, crouched by tubs of hot water.
Wok burners were jerry-rigged to propane tanks, and tables had been assembled for a makeshift prep area, where women chopped vegetables and hacked at pig carcasses. There was no organized queue, no menu, and no servers; people crowded around to order whatever they wanted, some waiting for their dishes, a few trying to pay, others watching the cooking and just there for the vibes. The chefs worked with steely ease, seemingly immune from the chaos. How they managed to keep track of everything was incomprehensible to me.
Most locals were here to eat sheng pi, "raw skin". It's a Bai specialty, and the preparation takes several days— roasting an entire pig with scorching straw, washing off the soot, slicing the skin and meat, and arranging it on a platter to serve with a vinegar-chili dipping sauce. The skin is roasted but the meat on the inside is still rare. It's dubbed "Yunnan sashimi."
No raw pork for us. Carrie said she'd had the best stir-fried choudoufu (stinky tofu) here, and I wanted to try it, but the vegetable options were endless too. You pick from the seasonal produce laid out on the table, and they cook it for you.
The auntie suggested a few dishes. She stacked plates of chrysanthemum greens, smashed potatoes, fava beans and tofu skins to join the queue. The cook dumped the tender stinky tofu in the wok, quickly passing it through oil, then drained it and crushed it, tossing the mash with chiles and garlic and greens.
Because it was fermented, the tofu was mild in flavor but creamy, not curd-like. Not really stinky, either—its savoriness was reminiscent of sausages, cheese, and buttery potatoes. The peppery chrysanthemum greens was the perfect pairing.
The tofu skin underwent a similar treatment in the wok—I expected something drier, but the fresh skins were rich and chewy, fried until their edges curled and wrinkled. They lay on our rice like tender ribbons, dripping with sauce and laced with garlic. We inhaled the spicy potatoes. They were cooked until soft, crushed, then wok-tossed with hot pickled chiles and pickled mustard greens.
Bai flavors are characteristically spicy and vinegary and bold, begging to be eaten with rice. We scooped complimentary bowls from the steaming communal pot. The soup was brothy and thickened with falling-apart taro, fava beans, and shuixing yanghua (水性杨花), an aquatic vegetable that reminds me of tender amaranth stems.
I don't know if it was our hunger from the ride or the extreme freshness of the ingredients, or the mere seconds between the wok and the table, but I was bowled over by how good everything tasted. There was something incantatory about eating under the rhythmic clanging of the cooking in the open air. Each bite wafted with guoqi, the irresistible aroma of the smoking wok. Our bill for three people came out to be 68 RMB ($10) total. Pennies for one of the best meals I've eaten in a long time.
Afterwards we walked through the market, where vendors sold fresh produce and fruit, along with a variety of prepared foods, snacks, pressed rapeseed and walnut oil, rice, Pu'er tea, traditional candy, gemstones, embroidery, hats, shoes, and kitchenware. A few stalls even offered broomsticks and furniture and farming tools. Like everywhere in western Yunnan, we found wandoufen (豌豆粉)— a tender curd made of yellow pea starch— doused in a chili oil sauce that each vendor makes themselves, topped with minced garlic water, aromatic vinegar, mint and cilantro, and a crunch of peanuts.
Some seasonal vegetables.
lovely to have you back in the inbox! these photos are stunning
Happy to see your post in the inbox. I always enjoy reading other cuisine's treatments of tofu and greens.