Chapter Seventeen: Culinary Skills

During the Tang dynasty, cuisine was largely centered around steaming, roasting, and boiling. The dishes produced were sometimes rather bland, or else heavily seasoned with spices, resulting in somewhat greasy fare with unremarkable colors. To Zhen Qian’s eyes, this hardly aligned with the Chinese culinary ideal of pleasing color, aroma, taste, and presentation, but it certainly reflected the bold and uninhibited spirit of the Tang people.

The Tang Chinese had a particular fondness for meat, especially lamb. Cattle, on the other hand, were essential for agriculture, and throughout successive feudal dynasties, strict controls were imposed on the slaughter of oxen, prohibiting common folk from butchering them. As a result, beef was rarely seen in the markets. Pigs, considered unclean, were looked down upon, and pork was deemed lowly and filthy meat, eaten only occasionally by ordinary people as a treat.

It was not until the Song dynasty, after the famed gourmand Su Dongpo invented Dongpo Pork, that pork began to gain broader acceptance. The prohibition on beef was, in theory, to protect agricultural production. Yet, as always, the people found ways around government edicts: if slaughtering cattle was forbidden, one could always consume the meat of a cow that had died “accidentally.” Thus, beef found its way to the table on occasion.

Lamb carried a distinct muttony odor, often suppressed in cooking with generous amounts of pepper. However, pepper was so expensive at the time that it was even used as part of officials’ salaries, making it a luxury far beyond the reach of ordinary folk.

Besides lamb, the Tang people—especially in the north—relied heavily on wheat-based foods, with various types of bread and cakes, numbering in the dozens, forming the staple diet. At that time, the term “bing” encompassed everything from steamed buns to pancakes and flatbreads, far broader than the modern concept. Examples included steamed cakes, pan-fried pancakes, “Hu cakes,” and soup cakes.

Interestingly, in the Tang dynasty, chicken, duck, and fish were not even considered meat. There’s an amusing anecdote: early in the dynasty, censors were prohibited from eating meat while on assignment, but the renowned chancellor Ma Zhou had a particular fondness for chicken. When someone reported him, Emperor Taizong said, “I forbade censors from eating meat to avoid extravagant spending by local governments, but how can eating chicken be considered eating meat?”—implying that poultry was not regarded as true meat, a notion quite baffling to later generations.

Another delicacy of the Tang era was raw fish slices, known as “fish kuai”—essentially sashimi. Contrary to modern belief, sashimi is not an imported dish; it was introduced to Japan from the Tang dynasty and only much later made its way back to China. Yet, people have forgotten that it originated with their own ancestors.

The preparation of sashimi has changed little through the ages: fresh fish is sliced or shredded thinly and eaten with dipping sauces. It was a top-tier dish of its time, as the cutting technique required was exceptionally demanding. Du Fu, the famous poet, described the process in detail in his poem “A Banquet of Sliced Fish at Wenshang by Magistrate Jiang”: “The host prepares sashimi in the dead of winter, as the biting wind howls for days. Fishing in the east of the river is unwise, for cutting through ice might disturb the river god’s palace. The cook receives the fish from the hands of the diver; washing the fish, sharpening the knife, the fish’s eyes glow red. The knife moves silently, snowflakes flying in fine shreds; bones are chopped, looking like spring scallions. The tender belly is offered to the young, the soft, fragrant rice to the old. The chopping board stays dry, the gold platter is emptied before one knows it.”

All in all, the Tang dynasty’s long coexistence of Han and non-Han peoples led to a blending of culinary traditions, making Chinese food culture richer and more vibrant. Although the ingredients and techniques of the time were not as varied and elaborate as in later centuries, most essential ingredients (save for those from the Americas) were already present. The dishes were authentic, fresh, and untouched by modern pollution, free from the dubious contents of the periodic table. With slight improvements, Zhen Qian found the cooking methods quite acceptable.

“Next, let’s make a pastry: Four Delights Steamed Dumplings!” he announced.

As he spoke, Zhen Qian beat the eggs and poured them into a newly fashioned flat-bottomed pan, making a beautiful omelet. He then diced the omelet, celery, chicken, and rehydrated black fungus and mushrooms, seasoning them with fine salt, scallion, ginger, and garlic. He took some pork belly, minced it, and stir-fried it with seasonings. By the time all the fillings were ready, Wang Sheng’s wife had already rolled out the dough and shaped the wrappers with decorative edges. Into each of the four corners of the dumpling wrapper, she placed a different filling, then arranged the dumplings in the steamer. After a few minutes, a basket of Four Delights Steamed Dumplings, vibrant in color and full of fragrance and flavor, was ready.

Wang Qun stood silently to one side, watching Zhen Qian busily at work, a strange feeling welling up inside. At that moment, Zhen Qian looked nothing like a scholar and more like an experienced chef.

The absurd notion lingered in Wang Qun’s mind: could it be that during Zhen Qian’s period of amnesia, he truly experienced something extraordinary, unknown to others? Zhen Qian’s figure became shrouded in mystery in Wang Qun’s mind, even stirring a hint of fear toward the unknown.

“Next, let’s make a dish of spicy and sour fish!” Zhen Qian continued.

Wang Sheng handed over a three- or four-pound black carp, cleaned and prepared. Zhen Qian deftly removed the head and bones, set them aside to marinate, and then sliced the fish fillets evenly with a sharp knife, marinating them as well. Moving with practiced ease, he heated vegetable oil in the wok, sautéed prickly ash, garlic, ginger slices, star anise, cinnamon, Sichuan pepper, bay leaves, and fermented bean paste until fragrant, then added a little water. He stir-fried bean sprouts, celery, and other vegetables, setting them aside. After boiling the fish head and bones, he added the vegetables, simmered for a few minutes, and finally slipped in the fish slices. Soon, a pot of spicy and sour fish, gleaming with vivid colors, was ready.

“It’s been ages since I last made spicy and sour fish myself,” Zhen Qian said, picking up a piece and tasting it. The flavor wasn’t entirely authentic, but the long-missed taste danced on his tongue, and a flicker of excitement shone in his eyes.

It was almost comical—perhaps his palate had become too discerning. Indeed, years of traveling had made tasting local specialties his favorite pastime wherever he went. Over time, his culinary skills had improved considerably; though no master chef, among his peers he was certainly outstanding.

After half an hour in the kitchen, with several helpers, they managed to prepare a sumptuous meal in a short time. Gazing at the table, resplendent with colorful dishes, Zhen Qian felt a deep sense of accomplishment, oblivious to the astonished looks of those around him.

This was the first time Zhen Qian had ever prepared so many dishes before an audience. There were over a dozen plates of various sizes, each one leaving those present amazed.

“This Lion’s Head meatball is simply delicious!”

“The braised dried tofu tastes wonderful, and this one too...!”

Little Bamboo and Little Plum simply couldn’t stop eating, their mouths already full yet still stuffing in more, as if afraid the food would be snatched away.

Wang Qun joked with Wang Sheng, “Old Wang, compared to Dalang, your ten-plus years of cooking were all for nothing. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Ah! Only today did I realize food could be made this way,” Wang Sheng sighed. “Why did I never think to cook like this before?”

Wang Sheng’s wife tasted a piece of fish, savoring it slowly. “Scholars truly are different—even their cooking is so full of variety. My husband really did waste all those years on his craft!”

Wang Sheng, embarrassed by the praise, asked, “Dalang, would you teach me these skills?”

“Aren’t you already learning, Uncle Wang?” Zhen Qian replied, pride evident in his expression. “I’ve had Little Bamboo and Little Plum write down each recipe. As long as you follow the steps, you’ll master these techniques in no time!”

Wang Sheng was so moved, he was at a loss for words. In these times, skills were closely guarded secrets. Though Wang Sheng was Zhen Qian’s retainer, truly learning his master’s craft was no small feat—yet Zhen Qian granted it so easily. How could Wang Sheng not be overwhelmed?

Little Bamboo was a bit displeased; in her mind, all of Zhen Qian’s skills ought to be passed on to her. Not only was she his personal maid, but also his bed companion—a status far above other maids. Once she was granted her freedom, she would become his concubine and mistress of the house.

Little Plum was equally unhappy—not only did she share Little Bamboo’s thoughts, but she also worried about Zhen Qian’s skills being taught to outsiders.

“We’re all family here. No need for such formalities,” Zhen Qian said, unconcerned. He wasn’t passing his skills on to outsiders—Wang Sheng and the others were his own people. If they learned, it would lighten the burden on Little Bamboo and Little Plum, and he had even bigger plans for the future. After all, he couldn’t rely on his cooking to make a living forever.

Zhen Qian’s nonchalance set off a storm of thoughts in Wang Qun’s heart. The carefree attitude was something the old Zhen Qian never possessed. Little wonder Wang Qun felt this way; the old Zhen Qian had been a bookish recluse, polite but somewhat aloof, with little concern for the world beyond his studies. He was courteous to his servants but lacked the easy warmth of the man before him now.

“The Zhen Qian of today is truly different. Whether that’s good or bad, who can say?”

Unaware of Wang Qun’s inner turmoil, Zhen Qian ordered Wang Sheng to set aside half the dishes for the others in the courtyard—he and the two young maids could never finish the whole table themselves.

The chance to sample Zhen Qian’s cooking thrilled everyone in the household. What other master would cook for his servants? This was surely unique in the world.

Zhen Qian, oblivious to the goodwill and respect his casual generosity had earned, went on to explain the use of the new kitchen tools to Wang Sheng and the others, reminding them to keep everything secret. Not that he needed to worry—these skills were Zhen Qian’s unique secrets, and sharing them was considered a great privilege. No one would dream of letting outsiders know.

“Master these dishes I’ve taught you over the next few days, and I’ll show you more in the future. With these skills, you’ll never have to worry about hardship again!”