Middling eastwards

We were still in China, but off the conventionally beaten path. Being shepherded around by a sort-of-English speaking guide was fun, though not when he insisted we try out Beijing’s latest gourmet rage: Kentucky fried chicken (more on that another day). In Xian we were less obviously confined, allowed to sample some of the local foods without getting too worried about their touristic value.

Lunch one dull grey afternoon was at a small restaurant in the centre of the not-too-large city. We were escorted ceremoniously to a little room, where we were shut in, along with dishes of fresh green snow peas, huge white pinwheels of lotus root, enormously long soya bean sprouts and a huge clump of leafy parsley. We sat down and stared at each other, then at the food, then at each other, then at the food, completely bewildered. This was the speciality eatery? Then the action started…in a strange way. First peeking apprehensively around a cracked open door, then slowly emerging into the room, sort of like the Cheshire Cat arriving at a tea party, a timid waitress brought with her three plates, each holding a large white mass of dough that looked like a steamed bun. Placing one in front of each of us, she fled, seemingly stunned by our thank-yous and smiles. A few moments later, the manager came in, beamed fondly at us and went into a flood of Chinese that had us looking at him wide eyed and open mouthed. The interpreter, who rushed in to save us from complete non compos mentis, explained. We had to pinch off tiny pieces of the enormous white loaf, he showed us, and the bits had to be just so, this size. Then we were left to our own devices.

We pinched and pinched and pinched. And went on pinching. It seemed endless, exhausting, especially since we were ravenous and had no clue what we were doing and why. Bites of the raw veggies we had been provided with filled us up, but with gas rather than a happy satiety. Burping sadly and in chorus and counterpoint, we pinched some more. Then, when our fingertips and patience were whittled down to almost non-existent, the frightened lady slid in again, this time to collect our bowls, each with a little scrap of paper placed on top of the crumbs of white bun. I tried another ‘Thank you’, but she popped out as rapidly as she had before. About half an hour later, when our stomachs echoed through the room, rumbling painfully with a mixture of gas and hunger, she tiptoed back in, her tray holding our three bowls, this time steaming gently and smelling totally ambrosial. It was a rich broth of meat and vegetables and, of course, the crumbs we had so painstakingly shredded, now melted into a soft and delicious layer of heaven. Shorba, the manager told us, and we nodded enthusiastically, our mouths too full for politeness and our minds drowning in pleasure.

A few days later we drove far into the foggy, soggy countryside to look at the terracotta soldiers, the Qing tombs and the Silk Route. En route, we stopped at a small country restaurant that seemed well equipped to handle tourists, even those as inarticulate and exotic as we were in the throng of American twang and Australian drawl. Various unnamed foods came our way, from soup to fish to fowl, each with a wonderful flavour and aroma. A bird came my way and I sampled, then again, finding it was pigeon; meat was placed on my plate, explained as rabbit. After a while I stopped asking, feeling with each answer that I was a murderer of cute and innocent creatures, but enjoying every bite.

And there was more to eat our way through. After all, we were in China, where every mouthful had a rainbow of tasty tales to tell!