So it’s been a good two months since I’ve gotten back and I’ve had some time to mull over my experiences. And while I’d like to spill them all into writing…I realize (as usual) that it would be just incoherent babble without at least some measured thought. Point is, this is (hopefully) the first of a series of entries I’ll be writing about my experiences in China, and more broadly, about Chinese food in general. In reality, there are few other things that I actually feel strongly about, so I want to mark my words and arguments with at least some degree of articulation. But for the sake of keeping things simple, I’ve decided to tackle a considerably simpler issue for the first entry.

With four months worth of amazing food, it’s really quite hard for me to say which was the best meal. But of them, this particular meal is the most clearly etched into my memory…if only for the experience. So I guess the more appropriate title would be. “The Most Memorable Meal I Ever Had.” …but that would be an alliteration…and an ugly-sounding one at that.

Sadly, I have no actual photos from that meal…so the following photos are from various meals I had while in China.

The best meal I had in China was on a frigid winter night in Shenzhen.

I climb the last few stairs, the sights and sounds of Shennan Lu assaulting my senses as I exit the subway station. “Damn, it’s cold,” I think, zipping up my jacket. The sidewalk is a flurry of people, taxis, loud honking, and food stalls, and I struggle to keep sight of my co-workers among the masses. “Let’s go out tonight, we’ll take you for some good food,” they had said. I was excited by the premise, but the chilly winter air currently has me yearning for the comforter back at the apartment. We wind away from the sprawling main streets and bright lights, into a convoluted mess of alleyways and backstreets. Suddenly, the streets become narrower and dustier. Light becomes dimmer, and people swarm on all sides. A cacophony of boisterous Cantonese and shrill Mandarin permeates the air, while the walls seem to loom higher, enclosing us. Like walking into the heart of darkness. “Watch your wallet,” my co-worker whispers to me, “this is where all the pickpockets and shit people hang out.” Indeed, this is not the polished, pristine city of skyscrapers and lights that the authorities and businessmen would have you believe.

 The best meal I had in China was eaten in some dingy backwater alleyway.

After several turns through the maze-like alleys, we sit down in a nondescript, tarp covered stall, the shoddy plastic stools threatening to collapse under our weight. The food stand next door is hawking goose tongue, and cages full of live animals are being wheeled through the narrow alleyway. A single lightbulb hangs from the top of the tent stall, casting an unnerving, unnatural white light against the blue tarp walls. At one table, some middle-aged businessmen argue, still clad in their weathered suits. While at another table, an older couple enjoys the meal in silence. Little children skitter in and out of the tent, kicking up dust while chasing each other and laughing. The fold-out table is simple enough, if not for the indiscreet 12-inch hole carved out of the middle of it. I peer inside and see what looks like a jet-burner attached to a propane tank, the metal grate still smoldering from the last table.  “I like where this is going,” I think.

 The best meal I had in China was probably alive only 30 minutes ago.

Flimsy plastic cups are passed around and the Tsingtao starts to flow. “Gan bei!” we shout,  toasting each other and to a hard day’s work. It’s then that the food starts coming. Little red and blue baskets of fresh, leafy green vegetables. Plates of uncooked, unidentifiable meats and organs. Some I recognize, others are completely new to me. Steadily and seemingly unceasingly, they keep on coming, the prelude to the main theme. Pretty soon there’s little room left on the table. Then the cook, clad in white undershirt and soiled apron, brings a bubbling, brimming earthenware pot to our table and sets it on the burner. It’s the aroma that hits me first. The unmistakable smell of chicken broth. With no small amount of anticipation, I look inside to see a golden-colored opaque broth bubbling away, spiked with herbs and cilantro. The aroma is wholesome, evocative of every chicken soup I’ve had before. I drink in the smell deeply, and suddenly the cold doesn’t seem to matter that much anymore. “But where’s the main meat?” I wonder.

We begin loading in vegetables and meats when I hear an awkward sounding “Gawwwwk!” behind me. I look over to the “kitchen,” which is really just a small cart in the street, equipped with a single wok and a cutting board. The cook is already furiously working the wok. He dumps the contents onto the board and begins chopping away. 5 minutes later, a beautifully golden-skinned, neatly cut, whole chicken is brought to our table. I get a few brief seconds to admire the bird, the quick-frying has given the skin a beautiful light amber color, and the skin scintillates with still hot oil. With the pieces assembled to resemble the bird’s original form, the skin on each piece slips back a bit, giving an almost teasing look at the glistening, moist white meat underneath. Meanwhile, the aroma of rendered chicken fat hits my nostrils, and I struggle to hold my chopsticks still. I have a moment to think,  “It’s beautiful…” right before the bird is unceremoniously shoveled, head-and-all, into the earthenware pot. My eyes open wide as I think to myself, “Holy crap. I am freaking hungry.”

The best meal I had in China was a simple, unassuming hot pot.

Minutes later, we’re busy fishing delectable bits from the boiling cauldron while we complain about co-workers and talk about our lives. I plunge my chopsticks into the opaque broth, feeling for pieces of meat. Sometimes a chicken claw breaks the surface, a leg another time, even the head…all of which go into my bowl, and eventually my mouth. The chicken is simple and unassuming in flavor. No fanciful purees, no truffled sauces. The meat is delectably tender, almost criminally succulent, and the taste is of natural, fresh chicken. A light smattering of Chinese herbs fills out the flavor, while the molten broth warms to the core. Time slows and I lean back, a little tipsy,  and look at the smiling faces of my friends, thinking…”this is it, this is what I live for.” We eat, drink, trade jokes and laugh, spitting chicken bones straight onto the table and downing several rounds of Tsingtao. Sporadic “Gawwks!” spring up behind us from time to time, while we tenderly sip and savor the delicious broth, breathing hot steam from our mouths that dissipates in the chilly night air. And outside in the streets, on a bone-chilling winter night…it’s all perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I later find out what we had eaten was called ji bao, which roughly translates to “chicken bag” or “chicken purse.” My friends insist that this isn’t even the best ji bao in town. But to me, this food, and this night…it’s all I need. I’ve never had anything remotely like it in the States. This is Chinese food for Chinese people. And in a way, it saddens me to think that with every amazing new thing I eat in China, I know I’ll never find it at home. But yes, I think to myself, this one dinner will be the one I’ll remember with greatest affection. Eating simple, great food at an unassuming, humble little stall, trading jokes and sharing lives with friends and colleagues, smoking cigs, toasting, and drinking until the cold night air takes on a welcoming, enveloping warmth. These will be the memories I will carry with me, and the moments I will live for.

(Thanks to Dan for playing editor.)