Eating Up the Landscape in Guangxi...

Once a sleepy village on the banks of the Li River, Yangshuo is now a bustling city at the center of Guangxi’s famous scenery: preposterous, steep karst formations that rise from rivers and rice paddies. What might seem stylized to the point of surrealism in ink paintings is revealed as (almost) faithful representation. And the dining options in this landscape? From the water come fish, frogs, turtles, shrimp, crawfish, snails, ducks, and other fare. Game includes bamboo pigs and pheasants. We scared up one of the latter from the brush as we rode our bikes along a dirt track. While water buffalo still work the paddies, domestic livestock are often what we would call “free range” and must thrive on human scraps, scavenging, and hunting: chickens, pigs, goats, and, yes, dogs. The latter are a specialty item in local restaurants, and you would be as likely served a marbled filet mignon instead of ground meat—and everything else—in a cheap burger as have canine surreptitiously foisted upon you. Still, the legend persists: in a familiar pattern, a well-traveled engineer on a mini-bus with us supposes that he has doubtless unwittingly eaten dog many times. No, the simple fact is that you have to order and pay for it. But while grazing cows do not make sense here, we discovered that since our last visit to Yangshuo several years ago a well-known American fast food chain has set up shop, where it adds to its running total of billions of burgers sold. The choice is yours….

One of the famed dishes in the region is “beer fish,” and—as you would guess—it is fish cooked in beer (speaking of which, the local beer, Liquan 灕原, takes its name from the limpid Li and is brewed with its waters). While ordering some “beer fish” is de rigueur, we might suggest another item that is just as ubiquitous on menus but infinitely better: stuffed rice paddy snails. The snails themselves are about the size of the common French land variety (Helix pomatia)—the same pesky type that now slither onto the sidewalks in Southern California when the marine layer moves in—but the shells are black. The meat is removed, chopped, pork and fat added, along with mint and other herbs, everything stuffed into the shells and cooked in a rich sauce. Some differences in seasoning aside—soy sauce mainly—this dish would be right at home in, say, Provence, Burgundy, or Périgord. Other striking parallels between this part of Guangxi and the French countryside abound, such as preserved duck and, of course, frogs. The reasons are simple: climate, land, and a catholic palate, today less driven by necessity but no less appreciated for that.

Rice Paddies and Karst Mountains

Freshwater Snails

Freshwater Eels

Local fare in a Yangshuo restaurant

Stir-fried Frog with Garlic Stems and Hot Peppers

Stuffed Snails... artfully blurred

Preserved Duck

Saving the Giant Panda One Bamboo Rat at a Time

Getting off the train at Guilin, a voluble fellow traveler confides that rat is one of the local specialty foods. As usual, there is a suspicion of inaccuracy about the information. At least in this case, the confider is eager rather than disdainful. (Not that rats aren’t and haven’t been eaten: according to the venerable Larousse Gastronomique, entrecôte à la Bordelaise was not originally a premium cut of grilled bos served with a sauce of shallot and the local red wine but rather the species rattus, preferably from the cellar, served up in like manner.) A day and half later, and we have just finished ordering a meal of battered squash of various sorts, freshwater shrimp, and a “water duck.” At least, we think we have finished ordering. The only problem is that the specific duck to be consumed needs to be selected, and the head of the table is beckoned outside to the vivarium to pronounce judgment.

Soon a handsome mallard drake is netted, weighed, and about to make its trip to the kitchen. But then, under a cage of fearsome looking snakes, we see some furry creatures that are certainly those “rats.” At 128 yuan per catty—almost 20 dollars—we try to order a small one. It turns out that they all weigh pretty close to three catty (some four pounds). These “rats” are certainly dear, but must be tried. The duck receives a reprieve. Twenty minutes later our squash and shrimp is accompanied by a wok, placed over a flame to keep it piping hot, full of rodent sautéed with black mushrooms and ginger. It is, as the waitress who coaxed us to try it proclaimed, well worth the expense for a special treat.

So, what is this “rat”? It is Rhizomys sinensis, and is actually eaten in various parts of Southern China and Southeast Asia. While we oppose the consumption of any endangered species—pangolin is certainly not on our menu—these oversized hamsters do not make the list. On the contrary, they are farming pests and compete with giant pandas for their mutually preferred food of bamboo (although the cuddly panda will occasionally turn carnivore and eat the rodents!). In Chinese they are not called “rats” at all, but rather 竹豬 (zhu zhu) or “bamboo pigs.”

Coda: Somewhat improbably we bumped into our fellow traveler a couple of days later as our separate skiffs were pulling up to a restaurant on the banks of the Li River. He had tried and enjoyed the dish as well; not really a “rat” at all, he noted. Indeed. 

"Vivarium"

They really look like giant hamsters

Stir-fried bamboo rat and fried Li River shrimp

Battered squash assortment

Losing Face... Saving the Meal

A bustling little restaurant by the shores of Lake Rong in Guilin spills squat tables and stools onto the sidewalk. The awning declares 油茶 and the first item on the menu is likewise “oil tea.” At two yuan (about thirty U.S. cents) per cup, it must be tried. We order some, along with several other dishes. Soon enough two empty bowls arrive, along with two little platters of puffed rice and peanuts, followed by the rest of our order.

Usually it is slightly uncomfortable to be observed while eating. It inevitably means getting caught dropping a choice morsel on the floor or, worse, into a bowl of soup with an oily splash. This time, being in the fishbowl is a boon: it turns out we have no idea how to drink “oil tea.” Unable to bear the sight of our incompetence any longer—the kids are munching away on the peanuts and rice—an older woman approaches the table and points out the thermos that has been stealthily placed at our feet. Pour the “oil tea” in the bowl, add the dried ingredients—the rice goes “pao!”—and then consume.  Of course. The passage from imbecile to expert takes a mere few seconds of explanation, and now everyone can go back to eating.

Oil tea is a staple of the local ethnic groups (especially the Yao) and is Guangxi comfort food. Tea leaves are fried with garlic, salt, ginger,and chili in peanut oil.  Water is added and brought to a boil.  When the brew is strained, the leaves are pounded with a pestle to release their flavor.  The result is a greenish-gray liquid and is quite strong, more like broth than tea.  In fact, at first we assumed that we were drinking stock because it was so rich and flavorful.  Additions to the tea include puffed rice, cereal balls, peanuts, chives and, of course, salt.  The dishes we ordered with the oil tea were: fried rice noodles, gluey taro rice cakes, stir-fried greens, spicy kelp salad, and smoked blood and tofu sausage.  

Oil Tea Restaurant

Ordering

Oil Tea with puffed rice, cereal balls, fried peanuts and chives

Fried rice noodles

Fried sticky rice and taro cakes

Stir fried vegetable

Kelp salad

Smoked blood and tofu sausage

   

Eating oil tea

 

Our oil tea expert