Chapter 103: Poverty Limits My Imagination

Returning to the hotel, I listened as the owner extolled the virtues of the Taishi dishes with almost mythical reverence. Promptly, I dialed a private number to reserve a dinner tasting for the evening.

Much of the culinary world's insider knowledge comes from casual chats with masters; after a lifetime immersed in this realm, countless whispers and rumors abound. With some free time, I browsed the web for information on the Taishi cuisine, hoping it would ease our conversation when we met.

Legend has it that over ninety years ago in Guangzhou, every autumn when the chill first stirred the air and the snake season began, the Jiang household bustled with an extraordinary fervor that lasted until the lunar year's end.

They held a snake banquet daily, with only one table each night. The Taishi Five-Snake Soup was the centerpiece, even the soul of the feast, sweeping through the autumn and winter. To this day, the tradition of eating snake meat flourishes, a legacy rooted in those times.

Within China, only two places dare to consume snake: here and in Changsha.

After reading more, my anticipation grew. At dusk, I set out for a courtyard where I met Jiang Hongyi, the sixth-generation inheritor of the Taishi culinary tradition.

The elder gentleman, just past fifty, was vigorous and lively. After a brief greeting, he began preparing the ingredients. Chrysanthemum tea was served—sweet and refreshing.

The dishes to come included Taishi Snake Soup, Dragon-Tiger Duel, Taishi Tofu, Taishi Field Frog, Shrimp with Pomelo Peel, Glass Prawn Balls, Winter Melon Crab Claws, Stir-fried Tripe Tips, and Stir-fried Beef Rice...

Since I was here, I resolved to try them all.

The first dish arrived: shrimp with pomelo peel. I hadn’t imagined pomelo peel could be part of a dish. Picking up a piece, a fragrant aroma burst forth, the tangy sweetness swept across my palate, awakening my appetite.

Jiang Hongyi came out, noticing my satisfaction, and smiled: "We used to use Shatian pomelos, but in recent years we've switched to specially cultivated pomelos with exceptionally large, thick rinds. We harvest before they fully ripen—around the Qixi Festival—when the peel is still green and thick but the flesh hasn't fully developed."

"The shrimp roe comes from the large prawns of Tai O. First, they are sun-dried to remove any fishiness, then stir-fried dry in a cast-iron wok with ginger and scallions. After being laid out on oil paper and frozen, they are stored in jars for later use."

I poured tea for the elder and politely said, "My master has also experimented with pomelo peel in cooking. First, the green outer skin is removed, leaving only the white pith, which must be handled carefully to preserve its shape. It’s quite troublesome."

"The inner pith is bitter and cannot be used directly. Through research, it must be soaked repeatedly, like a sponge absorbing water, then wrung out, soaked again, and wrung out again—four or five cycles—to soften the tough fibers and remove bitterness."

Jiang Hongyi’s eyes lit up, surprised by my relatively young age yet refined taste. He said warmly, "There's no shortcut—good work requires patience. Everyone’s process is similar. The broth is made from carp, pork belly, dried shrimp, beef, and scallops, simmered for eight hours. The pomelo peel soaks up the rich broth, then is topped with shrimp roe and oyster sauce to complete the dish."

Our exchange deepened the atmosphere, as the best chefs relish meeting those who truly appreciate their craft. Otherwise, it’s like a cow chewing on peonies—wasted effort.

As he rose to prepare the next dish, I savored the pomelo peel again. Originally tasteless, it now carried a rich sauce, complemented by the fresh shrimp roe and the peel’s faint fragrance—soft, aromatic, and delicious.

The first bite, in both texture and flavor, caused a fleeting daze. As I chewed, the interplay of meat and vegetable, spirit and flesh, the briny sweetness of the sea and the earth’s fragrance danced mysteriously—just as the taste left my tongue, it returned to my mind.

The second dish was Taishi Field Frog. Frog legs, dried scallops, ham, preserved bamboo shoots, lean pork, and diced winter melon were stewed together. The remaining frog meat, older bamboo shoots, and winter melon scraps were used for soup.

I picked up a piece. The winter melon was cut with exquisite precision—peeled and sliced into little rounds about three centimeters in diameter and two centimeters thick, like small chess pieces, beautiful and demanding great knife skill.

In my mouth, it was fresh, sweet, tender, and fragrant—a delicate misty aroma. Suddenly, an idea struck me: “Preserved bamboo shoots?”

"Sharp eye!" Jiang Hongyi appeared, slapping his thigh excitedly. "The key ingredient is dried Mao tail bamboo shoots, also called 'Bianjian'—a type of salted pen shoot, slender and long, twisted into bundles. It’s a famous Huaiyang delicacy."

"Without Bianjian, the dish is merely winter melon stewed with frog legs, which spoils the elegance. Nowadays, without Bianjian, people in Shunde substitute with pen shoots, winter bamboo shoots, or fresh bamboo shoot tips—utterly disappointing."

I nodded; frog legs are eaten nationwide, but Bianjian is truly the finishing touch, making the dish irresistible.

Jiang Hongyi fetched a bottle of liquor from the cabinet, poured two cups, and handed one to me: “Try Chen Taiji’s Yubingshao.”

Taking a sip, I felt its purity and unique aroma, mellow and delicate, with a pleasantly sweet aftertaste. Furrowing my brow, I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that pork I taste?”

“You can’t fool your palate!” Jiang Hongyi laughed. “We start with fine rice wine in a jar. Fatty pork is steamed, peeled, and cut into chunks, then soaked in the wine. The fat gradually dissolves and settles, filtered out to leave a clear, slightly yellowish transparent liquor. This is Yubingshao—soft, fragrant, and mild, not too strong.”

“Pork absorbs impurities, blending with the wine to create a unique aroma, mellowing the body of the liquor. Stored in earthenware, it’s as pure and clear as jade and ice.”

“Originally, Chen Taiji named it 'Rou Bingshao'—meat ice wine—because the pork chunks looked like translucent ice. Later, he changed it to 'Yu' (jade) because the word for meat and jade are homophones in Cantonese, and 'jade' sounded more elegant.”

A servant brought out the next dish—braised pork in Yubingshao—exquisite like a work of art, almost too beautiful to eat.

A layer of white sugar covered the pork’s surface. Before tasting, it was torched to caramelize, creating a thin, crisp crust. The pork melted in the mouth yet retained a pleasant chew.

Next was the jade hairpin frog legs. The frog legs were deboned and stuffed with ham, shiitake mushrooms, bamboo shoots, and orchid shoots, shaped delicately like a jade hairpin threading a hair bun.

The shiitake mushrooms were soaked then simmered in broth with chicken fat; the ham was soaked for a week in honey water to reduce saltiness. The bamboo shoots came from Foshan’s Shakou, crisp and sweet. Every detail was meticulously linked.

The tender frog meat wrapped in green orchid shoots, each hairpin delicately seasoned, the freshness of the earth fish enlivening the flavor, followed by the frog’s tender sweetness and orchid’s gentle fragrance, all accompanied by the perfect aroma of pork fat.

Winter melon crab claws arrived next. The crab claws were blanched in ice water to lock in freshness, then carefully shelled by hand, removing only the entire claw. A slight slip could ruin the shape, wasting all prior effort.

Only the best small section of seasonal summer winter melon was chosen, free of fibers or blemishes, placed beneath the crab claws to steam together, allowing the juices to seep in slowly, creating a translucent effect like old jade of icy clarity.

A minimalist pairing of ingredients, the orange-red crab contrasting with the snowy white melon, combined into a subtle, distant fragrance reminiscent of an ink painting.

Originally bland, the winter melon gained exquisite flavor, melting on the tongue, the crab meat tender and sweet. After eating, the mouth lingered with fragrance, and all distractions vanished.

The glass prawn balls followed—200 grams of tiger prawns, shells removed and the red surface peeled to leave a pure white body, hence the “glass” moniker.

The large prawn balls were scored on the back, then oil-blanched so the cuts blossomed like flowers—a display of masterful knife work.

Slow-cooked at low temperature, coated with a glassy sauce, served with a slice of Jinhua ham. The texture was fresh, crisp, and springy, with the center still slightly soft and creamy—the cooking was flawless.

Next came stir-fried osmanthus shark fin. The “osmanthus” did not refer to actual blossoms but to egg strands scattered like osmanthus flowers in autumn.

The fin strands were extremely dry, entirely free of excess oil. The egg was fluffy and fragrant, with the wok’s smoky aroma. The moment it touched the tongue, myriad flavors and textures exploded—salty, fresh, crisp, tender—a memorable delight.

Olive nut pig stomach was the final dish. Only the very tip of the pig’s stomach was used; the rest discarded. About twenty pig stomachs were needed for one dish.

The olive nut, named for its resemblance to an olive though unrelated, is rich in aroma and oil, enhancing both fragrance and texture in cooking.

Though unassuming in appearance, one spoonful revealed a burst of savory aroma. The stomach tip was naturally chewy yet tender, while the olive nut brought a refreshing breeze, lifting the palate to new heights.

This meal was truly an exquisite journey through culinary artistry.