Here is the fourth installment of my monthly column in Chengdoo Citylife Magazine, 'Your Chuancai Cupboard'. This month: Ya Cai.

Ya cai, is one of Sichuan’s most famous and distinctive food products. Made from the stems of a variety of mustard green, it’s fragrant and distinctive flavor is found in many of the regions dishes. Said to have been invented in the early 19th century, ya cai is just one of the myriad different preserved vegetables used in Sichuan’s cuisine, including zha cai, da tou cai ('big head vegetable')and many other regional varieties.

Ya cai’s primary ingredient is jie mo cai, a type of mustard green native to Southeast Sichuan. Around 4-5 months after being planted, the mustard green plants are harvested in the 9th lunar month. The leaves are then discarded, the stems sliced into even strips, and the strips hung out on poles to dry.

The making of ya cai is unusual among Sichuanese ingredients, in that while doubanjiang (chilli bean paste) and dou chi (fermented black beans) only require one fermentation stage, ya cai demands two. Once sufficiently dry, the mustard green stems are mixed with salt and left to ferment in sealed containers for 3 to 6 months – small ceramic pots called tu tan are traditionally used. This is the first of the two fermentation stages.

Once the first stage is complete, the mustard green stems are boiled with brown sugar for 8 to 9 hours, and are hung up to dry out once more. Now, star anise, Sichuan pepper, and other spices are added, and again, the mustard green stems are left to ferment in sealed containers for another 3 to 6 months.

In Chengdu’s markets you can sometimes find un-cut ya cai – long, straggly strips of green-brown vegetable, bought by weight – but mostly ya cai is bought already chopped up in small, sealed packages. When buying ya cai make sure to buy a brand based in Yibin, the city about 250km southeast of Chengdu which is the most celebrated producer of this ingredient. Once opened, you should store ya cai in a sealed container in a cool, dry place.

Though a few different brands exist, by far the most common is Yibin’s Sui Mi Ya Cai Company, who apparently started the practice of chopping up ya cai, hence the name – sui mi means crushed rice, referring to the appearance of the company’s bitty, pre-cut ya cai.

Ya cai is often mixed with pork for the stuffing of baozi, and is also a vital ingredient in Yibin’s signature dish, ran mian (‘burning noodles’). But it is perhaps most famously used in one of Sichuan’s most popular vegetable dishes, Dry-Fried Green beans. I’ve eaten countless different versions of this dish, but this one is my favorite.

Dry-fried Green Beans

250g green beans
2 tablespoons ya cai
1 tablespoon fermented black beans (dou chi), rinsed and drained
5 dried chillies, halved and seeds discarded
1 teaspoon Sichuan pepper (huajiao)
3 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced, and the same amount of ginger, thinly sliced
3 spring onions, cut into 3cm lengths
50g minced pork (optional)
Cooking oil
Salt to taste

1. Top and tail the green beans, and cut into 5cm lengths.
2. Heat your wok, and add about a tablespoon of cooking oil. Once hot, add the pork and stir-fry for a few minutes until cooked through, and then set aside.
3. Add a tablespoon of oil to the wok, and once hot add the beans, stir-fry for a couple of minutes, and then add another 1-2 tablespoons of oil. Stir-fry for another 3-5 minutes, or until the beans are tender. Remove from the wok and set aside.
4. Add another tablespoon of oil to the wok, and once hot add the garlic and ginger slices. Stir-fry on a moderate heat for about 30 seconds, and then add the chilies and Sichuan pepper. Stir-fry for another 30 seconds, taking care not to burn the spices, and now add the ya cai and dou chi and stir-fry for another 30 seconds.
5. Finally, add the spring onions (and the pork, if using), and return the beans to the wok. Stir-fry for another minute or so, add salt to taste, remove to a serving dish and serve.

A couple of weekends ago, I fulfilled a long-standing ambition – to learn how to make baozi.

Baozi are one of my favourite things to eat in China, and for anyone who knows me, that is high praise indeed. There’s just something about them that is hugely comforting, and biting through their soft, fluffy dough to reach the rich filling inside never fails to make me absurdly happy. They were one of the first foods I got addicted to here, and when living in our first apartment Cam and I would often buy them from nearby shop whose elderly proprietor we nicknamed ‘The Baozi Man’, because as well as selling baozi, he looked like one too.

Good baozi, though, is hard to find, especially in southern Chengdu, where rice reigns supreme. Wheat products like baozi are much more commonly eaten in the North, and so it was appropriate that it was my friend Xixi, whose father is from Northern Shandong province, who was my baozi master the other day. (As a lovely aside, Xixi’s mother is from Sichuan – so in her family, for lunch they eat Sichuan food, and for dinner they eat Northern-style).

Sadly, because it was evening when we made our baozi, I didn't get many good photos of the process (unlike when I learnt how to make jiaozi); here are the baozi wrapped and ready to be steamed…

And here are the finished products, with an excited Xixi.

We made two different fillings, one meat and one vegetarian, and ate it with spicy radish pickle, a tomato and cucumber salad and a European-style stew. The baozi were, needless to say, ridiculously tasty, and for me, miles better than any shop bought version I’ve ever tasted. They were so good in fact, that in spite of the long preparation needed, I can say with some certainty that this will not be the last time I make homemade baozi.

Another winter, another sausage season.

Come the cold weather, the streets are strung with countless strings of wind-drying sausage. Some will be hung from trees...

…others from bamboo poles...

…anywhere will do actually.

Sichuanese sausages are usually served as a cold appetizer, sliced into slanted rounds. They are a little like French sausisson – richly oily, with a chewy, meaty texture. Their name in Chinese, xiangcheng, is rather poetic, loosely translated as ‘fragrant lengths’, and they are a common feature on winter dinner tables.

Last year, experiencing a sudden craving for Western food, I begged my local butcher to sell me a sausage before it was properly dried. Though he resisted, I eventually got my sausage, fried it and ate it in a sandwich with ketchup. This year though, I will eat sausages as the Sichuanese do, served simply with a dip of ground chillis – great for when I’m feeling too lazy to cook.

Sausages hung from the eaves of a traditional wooden house in Tiefo Ancient Town, East Sichuan.

Sausages hung beside the furnace of a blacksmith’s workshop, also in Tiefo.

Here is the third installment of my monthly column in Chengdoo Citylife Magazine, 'Your Chuancai Cupboard'. This month: Dou Chi.

Dou chi 豆豉, or fermented black beans in English, may not be Sichuan’s most famous product, but these intensely flavored little nuggets nonetheless make an appearance in many of the region’s most famous dishes. As well as playing an important role in Sichuan’s cuisine, dou chi are also widely used across China (particularly in the Cantonese tradition), and the ubiquitous Chinese restaurant staple ‘black bean sauce’ is eaten in Chinatowns from Los Angeles to Lagos.

The English name ‘fermented black beans’ is, however, a misnomer. The bean used to make dou chi is not the black turtle bean (commonly used in the cuisine of the Americas and the Carribean), but the soybean, which is soaked, steamed, and then fermented to produce a salty, pungent flavoring.

Variations of dou chi abound across Asia, the most famous examples being Japanese Natto, Korean Cheonggukjang, and Himalayan Kinema. But while these versions rely on added bacteria to speed up the fermentation process, Chinese dou chi usually only have salt added, making their fermenting time much longer, and their taste less overwhelming than their Japanese and Korean counterparts.

As well as being one of the most widely used of Chinese cooking ingredients, dou chi is also one of the oldest. Scholars believe them to have been used in cooking as far back as the Han Dynasty (206 BC – 220 AD), making them one of the earliest known soy products in history. And not only are they tasty, but dou chi are also said to be good for your health, used by Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioners to relieve irritability, restlessness, and insomnia.

Sichuan’s most famous dou chi is made in eastern Yongchuan County, but although modern technology is often used to speed up the lengthy traditional method, a few other small producers still dot the Sichuan countryside. One of these is the Southwest Flavorings Company, who make dou chi, fermented tofu and many other traditional Chinese cooking ingredients at their factory in Longquan, an hour from Chengdu. Here, the process from dried soy bean to finished product takes a whole year.

First, the dried soybeans are soaked in water, and then steamed till soft. Next, any remaining liquid is squeezed out of them, salt added, and then the beans are packed into sealed containers and left to ferment for many months. At the Southwest Flavorings Company, the dou chi is available in ‘original flavor’, or with other ingredients are added, such as chilli or sesame seeds.

In China, dou chi can be bought loose in markets, and is also available in small sealed packages from both markets and supermarkets. Outside of China, packets of 'Fermented Black Beans' can be bought at most Chinese or Asian stores. When buying dou chi, try to look for beans that are oily, plump and shiny, and remember to rinse them before use to remove any grit.

I like to add dou chi in small quantities to liven-up simple stir-fries, and it’s particularly good paired with fish. But it is perhaps most famously used in the much-loved Sichuan staple, Twice-cooked Pork, a recipe for which I’ve adapted from Fuchsia Dunlop’s Sichuan Cookery and provided on the right.

Twice-cooked Pork 回锅肉

300-400g half fat, half lean pork, in one piece
1 small piece of fresh ginger, sliced
8 suan miao, ‘green garlics’ (spring onions are also fine)
1 tablespoon chilli bean paste (doubanjiang)
1 teaspoon sweet wheat paste (tianmianjiang)
1 tablespoon dou chi
1 teaspoon dark soy sauce
1 teaspoon sugar
Salt

1. Bring a large pan of water to the boil. Add the ginger and the pork piece. Return to the boil, and then simmer at a low heat for about 20-30 minutes, until the pork is just cooked. Remove the pork, allow to cool, then place in a bowl with a little of the cooking liquid and refrigerate for a couple of hours (or overnight).
2. When the meat has cooled, slice it as thinly as possible, with each slice half fat and half lean.
3. Wash, top and tail the green garlics, and slice into 3cm-long chunks.
4. Heat the wok, and add about 2 tablespoon of cooking oil. Once hot, add the pork slices and stir-fry until they are slightly brown.
5. Now, push the pork to the side of the wok, and add the chilli bean paste to the space you made. Stir-fry for about 30 seconds, until the oil has turned red, then add the sweet wheat paste and dou chi and stir-fry for another few seconds. Now mix everything in the wok together, and add the soy sauce, sugar and salt to taste. You can add a little of the pork cooking liquid if it get too dry.
6. Finally, add the green garlics, mix and stir-fry until they are just cooked. Remove the finished dish to a serving plate, and eat with steamed rice.

This is Jiang Zhengyi, a gan za (dry-goods) vendor in my local market, and one of the most charismatic men I have met in China. It is thanks to him that I recently had the opportunity of visiting a local foodstuffs factory to research the making of dou chi (fermented black beans) for my magazine column. To show my appreciation of his help with this, I promised Mr Jiang that I would write a profile of him and his shop, and so here it is.

The first time Cam and I met Mr Jiang, a simple question about soy sauce turned into a lengthy discussion of the many different types and flavors available. So when, last month, I needed to find a dou chi producer near Chengdu, I went to straight to him.

But when I first asked Mr Jiang if he could introduce me to a local maker of dou chi, he flat-out refused. ‘They’re traditional, and their recipes are secrets’, he said. ‘Would you expect a cheese maker in your country to tell you how he makes his cheese?’

‘I don’t want to go into the dou chi business!’ I replied in surprise, ‘I’m just interested in Chinese food.’ I mentioned my trips to Pixian (to see the doubanjiang), and to Qingxi (to see the huajiao), and slowly, Mr Jiang relented. ‘Let me make some phone calls’, he said evasively, ‘then we’ll see.’

A few days passed, I didn’t hear from Mr Jiang, and I began to lose hope. Buying vegetables one morning however, I bumped into him by chance. ‘Come down to my shop’, he said gruffly, ‘and I’ll speak to my contact about arranging a visit to his factory.’ Overjoyed, I did as he said, and less than 24 hours later I was being shown how dou chi, doufu ru (fermented tofu) and many other traditional products are made.

I’ve met many people who work with food in China, but none have been as genuinely passionate about their work as Mr Jiang. He is hugely knowledgeable about food, and says he only sells the very best products. Mr Jiang’s is, in fact, the best dry-goods store I have encountered in China – because in addition to his myriad domestic products, Mr Jiang also stocks many foreign items, including Lea and Perrins, canned coconut milk and olive oil. When I asked him about this, which is, in my experience, highly unusual in China, he said that nowadays many people are experimenting with combining Chinese and foreign ingredients – as he does himself.

Lastly, though it has nothing to do with food, I’ve also got to include something about Mr Jiang’s birthday: the 8th of August, 1958, ie. 08/08/58. Because in Chinese the word for 8, ‘ba’, rhymes with the ‘fa’ of ‘fa cai’ (meaning ‘to get rich’), 8 is traditionally the luckiest number. This makes Mr Jiang’s birthday perhaps the luckiest date in China – which is why, incidentally, it was also the date of the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics.