Before I moved to China, I wasn’t all that keen on meat. Sure I’d eat it if it was served to me and would probably enjoy it, but I never cooked it at home and never craved it. So when I first moved to China, I would usually favour vegetarian dishes, and if I did eat meat, I’d order chicken or beef.

But in a country where pork rules, this state of affairs was never going to last long. As I became more and more interested in the food of Sichuan and of China, my eating habits began to expand, and I tried more and more meat dishes.

The time and place of my conversion to pork I can remember very clearly. It was about a year after I arrived in China, and the Foreign Languages department of the university where I worked had taken the teachers away for a weekend break to the famous Emei mountain. We were eating lunch on our last day, at a fairly modest roadside restaurant near the small and unlovely town at the bottom of the mountain. Our boss had ordered lunch (including picking out a live fish) with the kind of enthusiasm and aplomb that speaks of someone who knows and loves food and doesn't need to worry about the bill. Soon, dozens of dishes appeared at our table, showcasing the breath of flavours that Sichuan is famous for.

Amongst the copious dishes spiked with bright red chilies or pungent Sichuan pepper, there was a subtle, pale dish of cauliflower and belly pork, the meat cut into finger length pieces that were an equal mix of fat and lean. The meat and vegetables lay in a small pool of equally colourless liquid, and it looked as if it would be a very plain flavoured, rather boring dish; as I remember, on being offered some by my Chinese colleague, I was reluctant even to try it.

I will never, ever forget the moment of my first mouthful of that pork. The best description I think I've come up with is 'an explosion of flavours'. Less poetically, it was as if I had discovered a whole new set of taste buds – there was a depth and deliciousness of flavour that I had simply never experienced before. It was a moment, and I say this without any exaggeration, of personal epiphany, and had two direct and wonderful consequences: I was instantly hooked on pork, and I started blogging about Sichuanese food soon after.

So, it was with delightful anticipation that almost exactly a year ago I planned my trip to Vietnam, where pork has almost equal a status as in China. My mouth watered even at the very descriptions of bun cha, bun thit nuong, cau lau et al...and thankfully, Vietnam did not disappoint.

I ate delicious pork dishes the length and breadth of the country – from bun cha in Hanoi, to cau lau (above) in Hoian, but there are two particular porky moments which I remember most of all. The first was in the far south of Vietnam in the Mekong delta, in a small town in Ben Tre Province. On my first evening there, finding myself unimpressed by my hotel’s food, I wandered into town to find some grub. In the small square at the main crossroads, I found a tiny noodle stall, and my heart jumped for joy.

As well as just looking fantastic, this barbecued pork was giving off an incredible smell – it had been marinating in fish sauce, chili and other flavourings for who knows how long, and was cooking over a fire made from coconut (the main local crop) shells, lending the smoke an intensely sweet and aromatic quality. It was cooked quickly, and served with cold bun rice noodles, crushed peanuts and various other goodies. It was simply gobsmacking, and I went back to that stall every evening of my stay.

The second porky moment of note in Vietnam was in the capital Hanoi, and was a rather special experience all round. Through my great friend Karin, who is Swedish, I came to meet and have the pleasure of spending some time with Thoa, the chef at the residence of the Swedish Ambassador to Vietnam. On hearing of my interest in Vietnamese food, Thoa welcomed us into her kitchen, not only at the Ambassador’s residence, but also in her own home.

The wonderful Thoa.

One afternoon, Karin and I went round to Thoa’s house for a very memorable cooking class/dinner, where we learnt how to cook nem, cahn chua, and this dish of pork and quail’s eggs, a variation of the Vietnamese classic pork and caramel sauce, itself a relative of my old Chinese favourite, hong shao rou, red braised pork. It’s an utterly sensational dish, and lucky for you, me and the rest of the world, I watched Thoa with eagle eyes and wrote down a rough recipe.

Thoa's version.

Having made hong shao rou quite a bit recently, I decided that the next time I bought a piece of belly pork from my wonderful local butcher I would try to recreate this dish at home. That day came last Friday, and also happened to be the day when I learnt that I'd got a job here. So, I made this dish in celebration, and it was, if I do say so myself, a brilliant success – the moment I starting cooking the meat I was transported back to the streets of Vietnam, the heady scent of fish sauce banishing the cold January day outside. The combination of this dish, and my recent meeting of another pork-obsessive, the talented chef here, have reminded me afresh why I adore this meat so. So, enough babbling: here, in honor of the pig, the King of Meats, is the recipe.

Thit Kho Tau (Pork and Quail’s Eggs in a Caramel Sauce)

500g of belly pork
1 spring onion
2 tablespoons of fish sauce
2 tablespoons of dark brown sugar
100 ml of water
½ can of coconut milk
6 quail’s eggs
Salt and pepper

1. Cut the pork belly into finger-length chunks, making sure that they have an equal mix of lean and fat layers. Finely chop the spring onion, and place in a small mixing bowl with the pork. Add the fish sauce and salt and pepper and mix well.
2. Hard-boil the quail’s eggs in a small saucepan, for about 10 minutes. Allow the eggs to cool by immersing them in cold water.
3. While the eggs are cooking, in a heavy-bottomed saucepan heat the sugar and a little of the water until they begin to caramelize.
4. Add the coconut milk and the rest of the water, and then add the pork and its marinade.
5. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook uncovered for at least an hour, stirring occasionally, topping up the mixture with water if it becomes too dry.
6. Shell the cooked quail’s eggs, and add to the pot about half an hour before serving.
7. Serve with plain steamed rice.

My version.

Advance warning for vegetarians: this post's not for you!

Been having great fun hanging out with Robyn and Dave from Eating Asia this week, and the other day threw up an unexpected delight. We were in Longquan, a small city about an hour from Chengdu, checking out the Southwest Flavourings Company, and eating at one of my favourite restaurants. We were all set to head off back to Chengdu after lunch when our driver, Heiwa, said he knew a very lovely guzhen (ancient town) nearby, and would we like to go and have a look?

Not really knowing what to expect, we set off in our little mianbao che on a road that twisted and turned through the hills. As we snaked our way down the valley side, a collection of old roofs and courtyards came into view, and I had the feeling that this was going to be something special.

And boy was it. Unlike other guzhens near Chengdu that have been prettified and sanitized for the hoards of tourists who descend upon them at weekends, this was the real deal. The road to Wufeng (Five Winds), as the town is called, has only just been paved, and the town itself hasn't yet had the same treatment. A crumbling temple was guarded by a single crotchety old lady; seemingly ancient men gathered in makeshift teahouses to play cards and mahjong; and schoolchildren followed us around as if the circus had come to town (which in a way it had).

Best of all for us foodies was the wealth of dried products hung up all around town. Here's a small selection.

Orange peel drying in the temple.

Various dried meats and sausages.

A lady preparing larou (homemade bacon).

Cute girl and drying radishes.

My favourite though was this lady, who was smoking huge slabs of meat over a pine wood fire...

...and who thoughtfully lifted up the cardboard that was covering the meat so that we could have a better look.

See veggies - I told you this one wasn't for you.

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.

Of course, I was expecting to eat well in France on my trip there this summer, but perhaps I wasn’t expecting to eat quite as well as I did. Not only was there the stupendous vegetarian cuisine at the singing course that I helped out on, but there were also plenty of other meals and foodie experiences that raised the bar too. The photograph above is from a rather memorable lunch with my mother in Capdenac-en-Haut in the Lot, but what I really got excited about on this trip was the food of the Hautes-Pyrenees.

I went there to visit my old friend Eva, who lives in the regional capital Tarbes. It was my first time in the area, and like across the whole of France, the area has its own unique culinary tradition. Food in France is almost as localised as it is in China – Eva told me that cheese from the region she grew up in, only about a 4 hour drive away, is difficult to find in Tarbes and expensive to boot. Though I sadly wasn’t there on a Thursday to witness the huge weekly market, I did get to try a few local delicacies via a small, road-side produce shop that we passed while Eva took me on a mini-tour of the nearby countryside.

This was the scene that greeted us upon jumping out of Eva’s van: row upon row of different flavours of saucisson – air-dried sausage.

Though I’m not that much of a carnivore, I was soon salivating as I read the names of the flavours – duck, wild boar, at least five mixtures of pork and various different cheeses, and all made on-site. Though Eva told me that the same saucisson are sold for almost half the price elsewhere, I couldn’t resist buying one, and after a lengthy process of umming-and-ahhing, I finally decided on the pork and hazelnut variety. It was fantastic – richly meaty, studded with nuts, and so peppery it was almost spicy.

At the same shop I also bought what is known locally as Gateau a la Broche – or in English, rather less glamorously, Spit Cake.

This is how it is described on the packet label:

‘Gateau a la Broche, patiently cooked on a spit, layer by layer, before a wood fire; our company continues the tradition of these valleys, where neither baptism nor marriage nor convivial meeting would be a day of celebration without this authentic recipe of our region.’

And here is the ingredients list:

Butter, 25% (!!!)
Sugar
Flour
Eggs
Rum
Vanilla
Ground almonds

How can something so simple be so delicious? Believe me, dear reader, it can, and is mainly down, I would guess, to the unique cooking method. As the label so eloquently describes, the cake mixture is poured over a metal spit, about 5 centimetres in diameter, which is rotated over a wood fire. Here’s a photo of the illustration on the label to give you a better idea.

So, once each layer is cooked to golden perfection, another layer is poured on top, meaning that the finished product, when broken open, not only has pretty swirls of light brown running through it, but also, with its drip-induced spikes, looks rather a medieval weapon. I have a theory that this cake is inspired by the local architecture, which has its own characteristic spiky edges.

We drove back to Tarbes that evening laden with these goodies, and I suppose it's no surprise that said goodies didn't last beyond said evening.

Oh dear. Writing this now and looking at the photos, I’m itching to go back there. Ah well, at least I have the wonderful world of Chinese cuisine to comfort myself with, and as a man who I met in Tarbes told me, there are really only two important schools of cuisine in this world – Chinese, and French.