Ayi made us our first home-cooked meal last night. It was, in short, plentiful and delicious. Even more rewarding, though, was actually going the market for all of the ingredients and having them cooked up as soon as we got home. It's so easy to forget how distant many of us have become from the food we eat. In just a few short decades, the custom of going daily to the fresh market has been all but totally lost.
Ayi brought us to a local market hidden away on a side street in our neighborhood. She's no Coupon Suzy, but a bargain hunter nonetheless... one of her most frequent topics of conversation is the relative price of a jin of garlic (斤, about .5 kg). Being a migrant from rural Henan province, she can hardly be blamed for it. I once asked her how to say Kim Jong-Il in Chinese, but she responded that she did not know who that was, so we went back to talking about garlic.
In any event, the fruits and vegetables at the market were strewn across tables and and in baskets under makeshift tents along the road. Even there, you have to shop around to save that last kuai or two (块, like "bucks," a measure word for money). In all, 3 eggplants, 2 large tomatoes, a bunch of broccoli, Chinese scallions, 5 pears, a bag of snow peas and a bag of hot peppers cost us just over $2. The eggs and meat we bought at the supermarket, for obvious reasons.
At home, I took down the recipe as Ayi washed and cooked the food. Chinese is famous for its plethora of very specific verbs, so I learned quite a lot as she sliced, diced and chopped -- hopefully I'll be able to replicate these delicious meals when I get home.
I joked as she mixed the fried tomatoes and eggs in the wok, "Wow, I'm not even doing anything and I'm tired..." But the reality is: learning is exhausting. I sat down to a feast -- eggplant and pork, spicy snow peas, broccoli and garlic sauce, fresh cucumbers in a sour sauce, and the best fried tomatoes and eggs I've ever had.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
三里屯Village
We went last night to the famous (or as Chinese people say: famours) expat shopping village on the east side district of 朝阳 (Chaoyang) called 三里屯 (Sanlitun, but pronounced colloquially with the Beijing "r" as sahn-lee-tour). Sanlitun Village is the home of Asia's first Apple store -- three years after opening their doors here in Beijing, this and China's other Apple stores generate on average the highest traffic and highest profits of any Apple store in the world, even more than the iconic "cube" location on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue.
Chaoyang is clear across the city, and at rush hour a taxi ride is every bit of an hour and sometimes more. Even by subway (always packed but at least well air-conditioned), it takes no less than 45 minutes to get to 团结湖站 (Tuanjiehu Station; twahn-jyeh-hoo-jahn; on line 10), a total of 13 stops with one transfer from 五道口 (Wudaokou; oo-dow-koh; on line 13 -- see map).
Once in Sanlitun Village, we met up with some expats at Union Bar & Grille for 20RMB (just over $3) beers during Happy Hour and some good old American grub. I had the 纽约鲁本三明治 (New York Reuben Sandwich; Nyoh-Yueh Loo-Bun Sahn-ming-juh), which came with awesome 薯条 (french fries; shoo-tyow) and 凉拌卷心菜 (coleslaw; lee'ahng-bahn joo'an-shin-tsai). The food and drink were good, and the place was filled mostly with foreigners. Indeed, the setting was so authentic that my roommate A. remarked that the only thing reminding him that we were in China was the small metal plaque on a dimly lit wall beside the bar that read: 消火栓 (shiow-hwoh-shwan), marking a compartment which houses an indoor fire hose and hydrant, required by law to be in every establishment and marked in Chinese.
We had a good time, for sure, and while it's comforting to know that there's a place I can go to escape true Beijing and get a little taste of home, to be honest it's not really the experience I'm looking for. Don't get me wrong, we'll be back. But hopefully over these precious nine months in China I'll be able to keep my time eating New York Reubens and speaking English to a minimum.
Chaoyang is clear across the city, and at rush hour a taxi ride is every bit of an hour and sometimes more. Even by subway (always packed but at least well air-conditioned), it takes no less than 45 minutes to get to 团结湖站 (Tuanjiehu Station; twahn-jyeh-hoo-jahn; on line 10), a total of 13 stops with one transfer from 五道口 (Wudaokou; oo-dow-koh; on line 13 -- see map).
Once in Sanlitun Village, we met up with some expats at Union Bar & Grille for 20RMB (just over $3) beers during Happy Hour and some good old American grub. I had the 纽约鲁本三明治 (New York Reuben Sandwich; Nyoh-Yueh Loo-Bun Sahn-ming-juh), which came with awesome 薯条 (french fries; shoo-tyow) and 凉拌卷心菜 (coleslaw; lee'ahng-bahn joo'an-shin-tsai). The food and drink were good, and the place was filled mostly with foreigners. Indeed, the setting was so authentic that my roommate A. remarked that the only thing reminding him that we were in China was the small metal plaque on a dimly lit wall beside the bar that read: 消火栓 (shiow-hwoh-shwan), marking a compartment which houses an indoor fire hose and hydrant, required by law to be in every establishment and marked in Chinese.
We had a good time, for sure, and while it's comforting to know that there's a place I can go to escape true Beijing and get a little taste of home, to be honest it's not really the experience I'm looking for. Don't get me wrong, we'll be back. But hopefully over these precious nine months in China I'll be able to keep my time eating New York Reubens and speaking English to a minimum.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Chef Dong's Braised Seacucumbers
Needing a change of scenery, a few of us hopped on the 地铁 (subway; dee-tyeh) to 东直门 (dong-juh-mun), a significantly Ritzier and less crowded area of Beijing than our bustling 五道口 (oo-dow-koh). Having walked around for almost an hour, we happened upon what from the exterior looked to be a large yet unassuming restaurant. There were lighted, kitschy banners extending around the exterior, which called the attention of my friend, who blurted out excitedly, "OMG! Can we please, please, please go to Chef Dong's Braised Seacucumbers!?" There was a picture of a smiling Chef Dong and his braised seacucumbers on the banner...The situation was awkwardly funny, and we laughed in due course.
It turns out that the restaurant was actually Da Dong's -- Big Dong's (of course) -- who is famous not only for his braised seacucumbers but also his prize-winning Peking Duck. The place was packed with people, many of them foreigners staying in the upscale hotels in the area, but we decided that it would be worth the half-hour wait, so we found seats at the bar and sipped on Lychee Bellinis until our table was ready.
The hokey back-lit banners outside did a disservice to the restaurant's chic interior, filled with large black tables in a dimly lit room with subtle streaks of color, along with well-arranged, elegant centerpieces and an attentive waitstaff. Sadly, we were not bold enough to partake of Big Dong's seacucumber -- but we did go for the duck, which although was not "life-changing," as my friend put it, we did enjoy it.
A side note: My Chinese last name is also Dong (董) -- although I unfortunately cannot claim to be Big Dong...
It turns out that the restaurant was actually Da Dong's -- Big Dong's (of course) -- who is famous not only for his braised seacucumbers but also his prize-winning Peking Duck. The place was packed with people, many of them foreigners staying in the upscale hotels in the area, but we decided that it would be worth the half-hour wait, so we found seats at the bar and sipped on Lychee Bellinis until our table was ready.
The hokey back-lit banners outside did a disservice to the restaurant's chic interior, filled with large black tables in a dimly lit room with subtle streaks of color, along with well-arranged, elegant centerpieces and an attentive waitstaff. Sadly, we were not bold enough to partake of Big Dong's seacucumber -- but we did go for the duck, which although was not "life-changing," as my friend put it, we did enjoy it.
A side note: My Chinese last name is also Dong (董) -- although I unfortunately cannot claim to be Big Dong...
Thursday, August 25, 2011
阿姨 (Ayi)
One of my roommates told me that I need to get over the whole "progress" thing. I've gotten into the habit of continually noting aloud that "we're making progress" each time we accomplish something that further stabilizes our life here. I've been saying it in that encouraging, rising tone, as if to say, "Well, we haven't done it all, but we making progress!" Surely, I'm talking more to myself than to anyone else. I think, though, that I've said it for the last time, as yesterday's procurement of an 阿姨 (ah-yee, pinyin: āyí), a housemother of sorts, has catapulted us into a whole new stratosphere of lifestyle here in China.
I actually probably would have worn myself out completely before ever actually calling our 阿姨, for in my mind the fear of the unknown far outweighed the prospect of having to bear the burden of completing the tasks that she's now undertaken. Thanks to M., who took the initiative to call, I (and we all) have saved ourselves a tremendous hassle.
M. explained to her over the phone (we inherited her number from the previous tenants; she came highly recommended) where we lived and that we heard that she could help us. I could actually hear here yelling into the phone from the other side of the apartment: she was coming immediately, and did within minutes of ending the call. We found out quickly that her yelling was not exclusive to phone conversations, but was rather a standard feature of communication. A., my other roommate, chalked it up to mild deafness. He was kidding but was probably right.
Having little or nothing in our kitchen, save four wine glasses (how did they know?) and a few wastepaper baskets, we -- with her help -- bought everything she would need at the supermarket across the street, basically an entire kitchen for about $100. It became clear rather quickly that she was not simply a maid. Indeed, the word 阿姨 itself means "auntie," either in the sense of a maternal aunt, or like the Indian form of address "auntie" for any female of similar age to one's parents.
It is an appropriate term in this case, since our 阿姨 is not just cooking for us and cleaning up after us, but rather take care of us for now and all the while teaching us how to take care of ourselves in her eventual absence. Her motherly instincts did kick in even in our first meeting. She had me eat a raw clove of garlic and a 馒头 (mon-toh, pinyin: mántou), a steamed roll, and a few peaches, as well as negotiated the terms of our water cooler delivery and made sure that it was properly installed.
Most telling though, was when I asked her what name we should call her. She said, "You can just call me 阿姨," as if calling her anything else would just be inappropriate.
I actually probably would have worn myself out completely before ever actually calling our 阿姨, for in my mind the fear of the unknown far outweighed the prospect of having to bear the burden of completing the tasks that she's now undertaken. Thanks to M., who took the initiative to call, I (and we all) have saved ourselves a tremendous hassle.
M. explained to her over the phone (we inherited her number from the previous tenants; she came highly recommended) where we lived and that we heard that she could help us. I could actually hear here yelling into the phone from the other side of the apartment: she was coming immediately, and did within minutes of ending the call. We found out quickly that her yelling was not exclusive to phone conversations, but was rather a standard feature of communication. A., my other roommate, chalked it up to mild deafness. He was kidding but was probably right.
Having little or nothing in our kitchen, save four wine glasses (how did they know?) and a few wastepaper baskets, we -- with her help -- bought everything she would need at the supermarket across the street, basically an entire kitchen for about $100. It became clear rather quickly that she was not simply a maid. Indeed, the word 阿姨 itself means "auntie," either in the sense of a maternal aunt, or like the Indian form of address "auntie" for any female of similar age to one's parents.
It is an appropriate term in this case, since our 阿姨 is not just cooking for us and cleaning up after us, but rather take care of us for now and all the while teaching us how to take care of ourselves in her eventual absence. Her motherly instincts did kick in even in our first meeting. She had me eat a raw clove of garlic and a 馒头 (mon-toh, pinyin: mántou), a steamed roll, and a few peaches, as well as negotiated the terms of our water cooler delivery and made sure that it was properly installed.
Most telling though, was when I asked her what name we should call her. She said, "You can just call me 阿姨," as if calling her anything else would just be inappropriate.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Being Civilized
The government here engages in significant promotion of "civilized" behavior. Banners and placards hung around Beijing's streets, on overpasses and buildings, remind people that civilized behavior will lead to a better and more harmonious society. I wonder though, when a Beijinger reads "文明" -- civilized -- what exactly is he thinking? Does civilized mean not casually eating a corn-on-the-cob while walking down the street? Does it mean not exposing his belly on a hot day to keep cool, or picking his nose when he has an itch? I don't really know. But to me, "civilized" has come to mean everything that especially we Americans try to pretend that we're not... sweaty, smelly, horny, hungry...you name it. Humans, in fact. What is it exactly about exerting control over our most basic desires that makes us civilized? Shouldn't I be able to casually eat a corn-on-the-cob while walking down the street with my shirt up over my belly while picking my nose? Sounds absurd, right? Well, perhaps it does. The question is, why?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Safe in Beijing
I originally posted this message with a blank body. Somehow, the web browser on my iPhone would not allow me to click into the body of the post, so I was forced to leave it blank. Why was I using my iPhone, you ask? Well, because it was the only device on which I had a function VPN (or Virtual Private Network -- downloadable software), which allows the user to circumvent the nettlesome roadblocks plaguing the Chinese internet. Now that we've finally gotten proper internet at our apartment (a penthouse no less...), I've been able to connect to blogger.com (banned here for whatever reason) via VPN and finish the post. So then, I'll leave it here... I kind of like this. A post about its own genesis.
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