At Home with Chinese Cuisine (4 page)

The blending of tastes can be appreciated in a dish with layers of tastes. Sourness from vinegar is seldom the only taste in a dish. Salt is always added because it is the basic seasoning in all savoury dishes. When the sugar is blended with vinegar and salt, sweet and sour is a popular blend of tastes. Do we wish the sweet note to hit us first when the food is in the mouth, or do we prefer the acidity to come through first? Do we welcome the aroma of the vinegar in the nose without the acidity in our mouth, or do we actually want the kick of the sharp edge of the acidity from the vinegar? The answers will affect when and how many times we add the vinegar in the cooking process, the proportion of sugar versus vinegar, and the choice of sugar (muscovado sugar or granulated sugar) and vinegar (brown rice vinegar or clear rice vinegar). I once met a master chef at a dinner party in Beijing, and we were served a dish of sweet and sour fish. The blended taste of the sauce was rather strong, and he said it was what most Northerners preferred. A lighter version, using about half the amount of sugar and vinegar, is preferred in the south to complement the natural umami taste of the fish that the Southerners prefer. He told me that when he started his apprenticeship many years ago, his master told him that there were at least ninety-nine different blends of sweet and sour sauce in Chinese cooking, and that it would take a chef a lifetime to master just a few.

The purpose of mixing and blending is to bring out the best of the main ingredients’ natural flavour; the result is a harmonious coexistence among them all. We also rely on the blending of spices and condiments to remove or mask the negatives the main ingredients may have – for example, unpleasant odours such as the rank odour of mutton. Wine, vinegar, ginger, and aromatic spices such as black pepper, cumin, or star anise are all candidates in this instance.

The higher the quality of the main ingredients, the less we play with the seasonings and condiments; less is more in this case. A fine dish with simplicity in taste demands more effort and attention than a plate peppered with strong tastes and aroma of spices wandering about and looking for somewhere to settle down.

The Taste of Umami

Xian
鮮
(the taste of umami in Chinese) has been in the Chinese culinary vocabulary for more than two thousand years. There are various stories about the discovery of this taste; the most popular one has it that the taste was first identified from a dish prepared by an imperial chef YiYa in the seventh century BC. He was known as a master blender of tastes in his time. He once prepared a dish of steamed turtle and lamb for QiHunGong, the ruler of the State of Qi during the ChunQiu Era (the Spring and Autumn Period). People who tried the dish attempted to find a word to describe the sweet taste of freshness in a savoury dish they found delightful. They came up with the ingenious idea of putting the Chinese character of the two ingredients together into one word. The Chinese word “umami” is written with the character for “fish” on the left and the character for “lamb” on the right.

There were twenty-four dynasties in the Chinese history by the turn of the twentieth century. The emperors and the rulers of the state spared no efforts in pursuing life nourishment for their health and longevity. How to ensure the nourishing quality of the imperial diet has always been uppermost in the imperial chefs’ minds. The imperial chefs’ experiment with the fermentation of fish and meat in brine in the Zhou Dynasty was one of the ancient methods of producing condiments with the umami taste. As the origin of the taste of umami, the surf-and-turf combination of fresh ingredients was thought to be most nourishing.

Over the centuries, the Chinese came to associate the taste of umami with nourishment and good life because it was the well-off and the privileged who could afford meat and fish in their daily diet. An imprint in the Chinese psyche of the association and the longing for both health and good living might help to explain the Chinese love for the taste of umami. It might also explain the use of MSG (monosodium glutamate) in Chinese cooking.

I was told of life under the Japanese occupation of Taiwan (1895–1945), and it was a harsh life for the majority of the population. Digging root crops and searching for wild vegetables from the field and roadside to fill the stomach was a common scene. Reconstruction ensued for nearly two decades following the Japanese withdrawal. During those difficult times, the availability of a small packet of mass-produced MSG relieved the family of the urge for meat.

The disappearance of MSG from the domestic kitchens in Taiwan since the 1970s was in step with the rapid economic development and the resultant affluence. The middle-class family sought the real thing and dismissed the industrially manufactured MSG and their equivalent from the domestic kitchen at quite a speed. These days, if one asks people to describe the taste of umami, the first thing they might mention is the sweet taste of freshness and the nourishing quality of the food. It could be about the flavour of stir-fried vegetables freshly picked before cooking. It could also be about a pot of slow-cooked meat stew with onion, potato, and carrots. It is not about a packet of MSG.

There is repetition of a similar sequence of events in China in recent years. Even though MSG remains popular in China, and hydrolysed vegetable protein formula is available as a substitute for MSG, changes in cooking habits are taking place. When I left Beijing in 2011 for the Christmas break in the UK, there were the usual TV cooking programmes sponsored by the manufacturers of MSG. Well-known chefs cooked their way through the programme, and at the end of the cooking, the host sprinkled some MSG from the sachet that bore the manufacturer’s name. The cooking programmes shown on prime time also saw chefs using MSG from time to time. But I detected the change in early 2012 when I returned to Beijing. Quite a few chefs appearing on the TV cooking programmes no longer used MSG in their cooking. They spent more time talking about the nutritional value of the food and promoting the benefits of a ten-a-day diet. It was pleasant to find the change had happened in such a short period of time.

We now know that the taste of umami can be found from naturally occurring glutamate acid, which is an amino acid contained in high-protein produce. It can be found in animal protein in meat and seafood. It can also be found in fermented or aged produce rich in glutamic acid, like fermented black beans, ShauXing rice wine, cured ham, and soy sauce. Fruits and vegetables such as mushrooms (especially Shiitake mushroom), tomatoes, onions, and root crops (such as potatoes and carrots) also contain glutamic acid. Food we are familiar with in the West that have found their way into the Chinese kitchen, such as anchovy, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and other matured cheeses are likewise rich in glutamic acid.

The taste of umami can also be found in manufactured products such as processed MSG (the crystalline salt of glutamic acid) and stock cubes of different flavour, with the bulk of their flavour coming from mass-produced MSG. They are widely used in the processed food industry and the catering industry all over the world. Consumers who live on ready meals and TV dinners probably do not realise that the high intake of these processed MSG has played a part in influencing their repeat consumption decision. This phenomenon can now be given a scientific explanation. The fondness for the taste of umami has been found to be quite universal. The glutamate receptors and amino acid receptors on our tongue can identify the taste of umami while we eat. They send sensory signals of the presence of protein to our brain and consequently influence our perception of the nutritional quality of the food. For all of us, the taste of umami signals satiety.

Sound

One of my childhood gastronomical experiences was the Saturday dinner at my father’s favourite restaurant. The chef was a family friend from JiangSu Province, and his Crispy Rice Crusts with Prawns was the best in town. He always prepared the dish himself when we were in his restaurant. When the dish was served, the freshly deep-fried rice crusts were placed on a deep dish to bring to the table, along with a bowl of bubbling hot sauce consisting of prawns, shredded chicken, tomatoes, and chicken broth. The sizzling sounds of hot, crispy rice crusts meeting the sauce always made us salivate in anticipation of the texture of the slightly softened rice crusts with the tender prawns and the smooth sauce mingling in our mouths. The aroma arrived soon after, and the auditory and olfactory information converged. We were expected to taste the dish before the rice crust soaked up too much sauce. After having to learn how to enjoy the hot sauce skilfully and avoid injuries to our throats, we had the opportunity to appreciate the essence of serving a dish at the right temperature.

Since the Shang Dynasty (16th–11th century BC), live entertainment was always presented at state banquets. It was more atmospheric than with the intention to enhance diners’ eating pleasure. By the tenth century, stage performances were offered in the restaurants as a way to attract and entertain. Sound draws crowds, a friend told me when he showed me around the old streets with the concentration of shops selling old Beijing street food. I was told that in the old days, shops were opened facing the street without the partition to separate the kitchen from the serving area. Passers-by judged the quality of the food by listening to the rhythm of chopping and the tempo of cooking.

In recent years, exclusive member-only clubs have sprung up around the metropolis at quite an impressive speed. The newly rich lavish on entertainment and relationship building in privacy. They demand a service standard compatible with that of upscale dining establishments in the West, and they take gastronomy seriously. My wine consultant, Ms. Liu told me of her encounter with a yacht club restaurant manager in Shanghai. He asked her for help to design a menu for their members’ autumn gathering. She suggested duck lightly smoked with the black tea from YunNan Province as the main course. Because there would be both female and male guests, she suggested two choices of wine to match: a vintage, full-bodied Pinot Gris from Alsace, and a very lightly peated eighteen-year-old malt whisky from Islay, Scotland. The manager’s first question was her choice of background music that would match the wine suggested. Background music is important and in vogue, he emphasised; it portrays the desired image of the club, and it influences the mood and how people think of the food.

Texture and the Sense of Touch

More often than we realise, we tell how we like a dish by describing the texture of the food. The salad is lovely because it is crunchy. The meat is beautiful because it is tender. The crackling is properly done when it is crispy. The texture of the food can be detected through the senses of vision, hearing, and our tactile sense of touch, in particular the chewing motion. Touch influences our perception of the flavour of the food.

Our first assessment of the texture is when we encounter the food by sight. We should be able to tell whether it is soft, crisp, tender, or chewy, or whether it has a combination of textural properties. Our second chance comes when we touch the food with the chopsticks. The chopsticks are our extended fingers and allow us to feel the texture, for example, of deep-fried food still in the hot oil. The discovery continues when the food is in our mouths: we feel the texture with our mouth and tongue. As we continue on with the chewing motion and mixing the food with the saliva, the texture of the food influences the speed and intensity of the diffusion of the aroma and taste molecules towards our olfactory and gustatory receptors. The sensory perceptions of texture, taste and aroma, and sound interact simultaneously. Our brain is busy at work processing all these sensory signals.

Chewing the food is important in order to appreciate the flavour of the dish. When we chew and break down the food, it interacts with the saliva. The flavour molecules of the food then become soluble and consequently reach the taste receptors in the taste buds on our tongue. At the same time, the aroma compounds are released into the nasal cavity to reach the olfactory receptors and trigger our sense of smell. As we chew on, new flavour molecules continue to release in our saliva, and the enzymes in our saliva start to react with the proteins in the food and produce new molecules through chemical reactions. It brings out new layers of taste sensation as we chew. Meanwhile, the enzymes affect the viscosity of the food and make swallowing easier. Chewing also gives time for our brain to process the sensory signals that the receptors send up during the meal. Our brains can then tell us whether we enjoy the food and when we feel satisfied. Swallowing food without chewing is like drinking wine straight down without tasting: in either of the cases, our senses are not given enough time to react and interact. We will have no idea of the flavour of the food or the complexity of the wine.

Serving ingredients raw is the most straightforward way of retaining their natural textures. The common practice of combining ingredients of different textures is to give different tactile stimulation and make chewing interesting. Knife work can also influence the texture. For example, cutting the fibrous vegetables across or along the fibre gives it a different texture. The texture of the food continues to change in the cooking process depending upon the cooking method, heat control, and the cooking time. High-temperature and quick stir-frying can retain the crunchiness of vegetables, whereas high-temperature and long boiling will make them an inedible, mushy mass.

The sense of touch affects our perceptions of digestibility and nutrition. In China, as well as in Japan and Korea, food with soft texture (such as congee) is often served when there are infants, elderly, or infirm in the family. The Chinese also share with the Japanese and the Italian the notion of nutritious broth for good health. The broth is commonly prepared by cooking old hens slowly until the meat comes away from the bone and the broth is rich. Imagine cooking for a family with the elderly preferring an easy-to-swallow diet, the younger generation liking chewy and firmer texture, and the young child demanding crisp or tender food. It explains why the grandparents responsible for preparing the meals in a three-generation household are the most active participants in the TV food programmes, seeking the ultimate menu to satisfy every member of the family.