My Grandmother's Chinese Kitchen

by Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

  He left Hong Kong, and we corresponded for slightly less than a year. Then he returned and in a flurry of activity we were licensed to be married, then married. I had my visa approved and issued in one day. We were both given visas for Japan, where we had a brief honeymoon, then we flew on to the United States, all in ten days. It was Aunt Number Six who became my surrogate mother in that year, from the time Fred and I met, until we left Hong Kong. It was Lok Ku Cheh, with my four cousins, who planned and arranged our wedding reception, which by the way, was held before we were married simply because we had to schedule it on a day when most people would be off from work. It was fine. It was fun. I left Hong Kong nine years after I had arrived there from Ah Paw’s house.

  NINE

  TO MY KITCHEN

  THE LESSONS I HAD LEARNED IN my grandmother’s kitchen were put to the severest of tests very shortly after my arrival in the United States. What was accepted here as Chinese food, was not. What was widely regarded as authentic Chinese cooking, was not. All manner of so-called Chinese foods were to be found in cans and packages, and in the frozen compartments of markets. I quickly became quite homesick for the food I had cooked and eaten in my home and that of my grandmother.

  My disorientation began with a dinner my new parents-in-law gave in my honor at their favorite local Chinese restaurant. As they ordered, out came chau mein, not a beautiful tangle of fresh noodles with vegetables and perhaps some pork, but a solid soft mass of cornstarched cabbage, celery and onions sitting on fried, but soggy noodles; and egg fu yung, not the fluffy, light scramble of eggs with tiny shrimp it was supposed to be, but a Frisbee-like disk covered with a thick brown sauce. I called the manager and asked him, in Chinese, “Nei yau moh chung guok choi?” which translated literally means, “Do you have any food from China?”

  He smiled at me. I told him I had just come from Hong Kong two days earlier, and I could not eat this food. He asked what could he cook for me. I asked him if he had any barbecued pork. He said yes. I asked if he had any choi sum (lettuce). He said yes. Well then, I asked, could you stir-fry some of both together for me, and give me a bowl of cooked rice. Which he did, and I enjoyed my meal. My new parents liked the dish as well, even though they thought it odd.

  Only a few days later, I recall that my husband, to surprise and please me, stopped off at a market on the way home from work and walked in with a package of frozen sweet and sour pork, a can of fried noodles and a can of bean sprouts for me. His heart was surely in the right place, but when I opened the cans, defrosted and heated the pork, I simply could not eat even a bite. At that point I said the next time he thought of shopping for me, it should be to take me to New York City’s Chinatown.

  He did, and I bought not only a collection of woks, cleavers, steamers, ladles, spatulas, strainers and brushes, but rice, peanut oil and sesame oil, soy and oyster sauces, and an assortment of dried foods, to set up my first Chinese kitchen in America.

  All of these were available, but the more unfamiliar of Chinese foodstuffs that had been commonplace to me growing up, were not always available. The American supermarket was of little help. Meats and chickens were in parts, frozen, or sitting on ice. There were no vegetables that I could call truly Chinese, but there were watercress, lettuce, spinach, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, celery and string beans of middling quality, though not of the crisp versions of those I remembered from my grandmother’s walled garden. There was no ginger, and garlic, when available, came two small purple bulbs to a box. Most soy sauces were thin and salt-laden. I remember buying a bottle, opening it, tasting it and resolving never to cook with it.

  In general, the vegetables displayed in Chinatown shops—vegetables grown on New Jersey truck farms for the expanding enclave of Chinese immigrants in lower Manhattan—were better. I found live chickens and fish, which pleased me, but the water chestnuts were only in cans. It was a mixed, if recognizable, bag. I thought of my father’s dictum, that one should learn to turn corners or one would walk into walls, and I began cooking Chinese food. My shopping forays into Chinatown came at least twice a week.

  It should be noted that at this time, Chinatown was itself somewhat insular. Quite often, as I walked its streets with my non-Chinese husband, unpleasantries were growled at me. Not only did I ignore them, but I did not explain them to my husband.

  IN FRONT OF MY WALL OF WOKS AT HOME.

  Soon I became used to Chinatown. I found small shops with some of the essentials I had been used to. I found fresh noodles and bean curd factories, and I found Mr. Leung. My Leung was a middle-aged man, whose family had come from a part of China reasonably close to where I had been born. He was a kind man, who tended his food shop always wearing knee-high boots, and a thick denim apron.

  He greeted me pleasantly. He listened as I talked about my wishes to outfit a proper Chinese kitchen, and even as we talked, he cut off a small piece from the juicy middle of a length of barbecued pork and gave it to my little son, Christopher. My relationship with Mr. Leung became long and fruitful. He was the first Chinese friend I made in America.

  WITH MY FIRST SON, CHRISTOPHER, AGE THREE, AND MY DAUGHTER, ELENA, JUST AFTER HER BIRTH IN JANUARY OF 1963.

  Over the years this once-small plot of downtown Manhattan has become big and sprawling, in virtually every way, a Chinese city within the ultimate American city. The quality of foods offered and sold can be exceptional. It is my market, and I take friends, Western chefs and students there by the dozens to introduce them to the true tastes of my food. I consider my food part of my heritage, for that is what Ah Paw taught me, and it is what I preach. Fine Chinese cooking is as it was in my grandmother’s kitchen in Sah Gau, of fresh ingredients presented unadorned, with essential flavors unmasked by heavy sauces, with poultry and meats, fish and seafoods, cooked so that their tastes are true.

  In my kitchen I have taught my children that food is a part of their shared culture, that it is tradition and custom, as well as nourishment. I know they believe it. And, in what has now become my own grandmother’s kitchen, I have begun imparting that which I was taught, what was instilled in my bones, to my granddaughter. As early as the age of one, she would watch, unmoving, her eyes wide with interest, as I stirred, mixed, boiled and otherwise cooked food on my stove for her. She ate chicken that had been poached in stock, yams, potatoes, broccoli and carrots, cut finely for her. My husband would hold her for long periods simply because she wanted to watch what was a mystery. But soon it won’t be.

  My kitchen grew as I acquired space. Two apartment kitchens were confining, to be sure, but once our family moved into a large home my kitchen swelled to include some cabinetry reworking to accommodate a large gas-fired professional stove and oven, a collection of more than thirty woks, carbon steel and iron for stir-frying, stainless steel for steaming, even aluminum, as a brief experiment. Most of them are traditional round-bottom woks, the best, and a couple of flat-bottoms that I use when I must do demonstration classes on portable electric ranges. I have acquired more than twenty traditional woven bamboo steamers, also the best.

  One technique I have developed in my kitchen is tempering. The clay and ceramic dishes of China seemed never to crack in the heat of steam, but I found that some in the West do. Tempering (see page 230) will ensure that your porcelains and Pyrexes will not crack when heated.

  I acquired a whole herd of cleavers of various sizes and weights, to cut, slice and mince, to chop, to cut fish, to slice vegetables. And I have collected as well big round steel strainers and wire strainers, from as small as three inches across to fourteen inches in diameter.

  All of these are the bedrock of my kitchen, in which I have taught private classes, before becoming a teaching chef at the China Institute, and the New School in New York City. Without the limitations of space, I have been able to expand upon what I learned as a girl, even to go beyond that teaching. In China, for example, we virtually never made dim sum dumplings, those little dots on the heart so beloved in southern China. They
are time-consuming to make, and in China, the teahouses and dim sum parlors were accessible. But why should I not make them? I believed that there surely would be an audience, even if only among those who loved the experience of working with flours and those doughs that come alive in one’s hands.

  MY SON STEVEN, AGE FIVE, IN 1974.

  IN A CLASS FOR IMMIGRANTS AT THE CHINA INSTITUTE IN 1979, IN WHICH THEY WERE TAUGHT BASIC ENGLISH, COOKING TECHNIQUES, AND RESTAURANT SERVICE. WE WERE VISITED BY SEVERAL CHEFS FROM THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA, THE FIRST SUCH PROFESSIONAL VISIT.

  TEMPERING

  Porcelain dishes and Pyrexes may be used inside of steamers, but first they must be seasoned or tempered. Fill a wok with five to six cups cold water, place a rack in the wok and stack the dishes to be tempered on the rack, making certain they are completely covered with cold water. Cover wok, bring water to a boil, allow to boil 10 minutes. Turn off heat. allow wok to cool to room temperature. The dishes are now seasoned, permanently, and can be placed in steamers without fearing they will crack. It has been suggested that Pyrex is already tempered, but this applies only for Pyrex dishes that will go into an oven.

  Dough for Steamed Buns

  (BAU MIN TEUN)

  This dough, which uses bleached flour as a base, is ideal for buns with fillings ranging from chicken, to vegetables, to red bean and lotus seed pastes. Unfilled, this dough steams into soft, spongelike, slightly sweet breads often eaten with fried poultry.

  As many of us know, flours react differently based upon seasons, climate and the presence or lack of moisture. By a process of many trials I have found one flour to be the best for this dough in the United States: Gold Medal All-Purpose Enriched Bleached Flour. I specify bleached because the Chinese admire its snowy whiteness as much as they do the whiteness of cooked rice. The use of lard is an old tradition. Use it if you wish.

  2¼ cups flour

  3½ teaspoons baking powder

  ½ cup sugar

  3 ounces milk

  1½ ounces water

  3 tablespoons lard at room temperature, or peanut oil

  Mix flour, baking powder and sugar together on a work surface. Make a well in the center of the mixture. Add milk gradually, working it with the fingers. Once milk has been absorbed, add water and continue to work the mix into a dough. Add lard, or peanut oil, and again, continue to work down with the fingers.

  Using a dough scraper, gather dough in one hand and begin kneading with the other. Knead for 12 to 15 minutes. If dough is dry, add 1 teaspoon of water at a time and continue to knead, until the dough becomes elastic. If dough is wet, sprinkle a bit of flour on the work surface and on your hands and continue kneading.

  When dough is elastic, cover with a damp cloth and allow to rest for about 1 hour. The dough is now ready for use.

  Steamed Pork Buns

  (JING CHAR SIU BAU)

  These particular steamed buns were favorites of my grandmother, who would send her servants off to the teahouse to buy them, then re-steam them in her kitchen. I recall that every month, on the day after her observance of her self-imposed Buddhist day of vegetarianism in mid-month, Ah Paw would enjoy these pork-filled buns. No one in my family enjoys them more than my daughter, Elena. One year when she came home from college with a classmate, the two of them ate fourteen of them! I hope her daughter, my granddaughter, Siu Siu, loves them as much.

  SAUCE

  1½ tablespoons oyster sauce

  1½ teaspoons dark soy sauce

  1 tablespoon ketchup

  2¼ teaspoons sugar

  Pinch white pepper

  1 tablespoon tapioca starch

  2½ ounces Chicken Stock (page 14)

  1½ tablespoons peanut oil

  ½ cup onions, cut into ¼-inch dice

  ¾ cup Barbecued Pork (page 43), sliced paper thin, into squares ⅓ inch

  on a side

  1½ teaspoons Chinese white rice wine, or gin

  ½ teaspoon sesame oil

  1 recipe Dough for Steamed Buns (page 231)

  16 squares of waxed paper 2½ inches on a side

  2 tablespoons Scallion Oil (page 16)

  Mix all ingredients for sauce; reserve.

  MAKE THE PORK BUN FILLING: Heat wok over high heat 40 seconds. Add peanut oil, coat wok with spatula. When a wisp of white smoke appears, add onions, lower heat, cook, turning occasionally until onions turn light brown, about 4 minutes. Add pork, raise heat, stir-fry with onions for 2 minutes. Add wine, mix well. Lower heat, stir sauce, pour in, stir until mixture thickens and turns brown, 2 to 3 minutes. Add sesame oil, mix well. Turn off heat. Remove pork filling and transfer to a shallow dish. Allow to cool to room temperature. Refrigerate, uncovered, 4 hours, or covered, overnight.

  PREPARE THE BUNS: Roll steamed bun dough into a cylinder 16 inches long. Cut into 1-inch pieces. Roll each piece into a ball. Work with one piece at a time, cover those not being used with damp cloth.

  Press ball of dough down lightly, then, working with the fingers of both hands, press dough into a dome-like well shape. Place 1 tablespoon of filling in center of well. Close and pleat dough with fingers until filling is completely enclosed. Twist and pinch off last bits of dough. Repeat until 16 buns are formed. (Use only 1 tablespoon of filling at the outset, until you have learned to work well with the dough. Otherwise you may have trouble sealing the buns. When you are more comfortable, increase amount of filling to 1½ to 2 tablespoons.)

  Place buns on squares of waxed paper, sealed sides up. Place in steamer 2 inches apart to allow for expansion. Steam for 15 to 20 minutes (page 30). The buns are done when they are snowy white, and their tops, where they were sealed, will open like a flower, revealing a bit of the filling. Brush bun with scallion oil and serve.

  MAKES 16 BUNS

  NOTE These buns will keep 3 to 4 days after steaming, refrigerated. To reheat, steam for 5 minutes. They may also be frozen, after steaming, and will keep 2 to 3 months. To reheat, defrost thoroughly, steam for 5 minutes until very hot.

  Steamed Sausage Buns

  (LOP CHEUNG GUEN)

  When I was young, these steamed sausage buns were a winter treat, because the pork sausages were made only in the cold months. The impatience of waiting, the expectation, made them even more of a seasonal treat. When I found that lop cheung was readily available in Asian markets, at any time, I quickly made these remembrances from my childhood.

  3 tablespoons oyster sauce

  3 tablespoons dark soy sauce

  1 tablespoon sesame oil

  8 Chinese pork sausages (lop cheung), each cut in half on the diagonal

  1 recipe Dough for Steamed Buns (page 231)

  16 pieces of waxed paper, cut into 3½-inches by 2-inches pieces

  2 tablespoons Scallion Oil (page 16)

  In a shallow dish combine oyster sauce, soy sauce and sesame oil. Add sausage pieces and marinate for 30 minutes.

  MAKE THE BUNS: Roll Steamed Bun Dough into a cylinder 16 inches long. Cut into 1-inch pieces. Work with 1 piece at a time, covering those remaining with a damp cloth. Roll each piece into a sausage shape 12 inches long. Press sausage piece by its thinly cut end together with one end of the dough length. Then press and wrap dough in a spiral around the sausage length. When the end is reached, press it into the sausage to seal. Both ends of the sausage will be visible at the ends of the dough spiral.

  Place each sausage roll on a piece of waxed paper. Place in steamer, 1 inch apart, to allow for expansion. Steam 15 to 20 minutes, until snowy white. (See steaming directions, page 30.) Remove from steamer, brush with scallion oil and serve immediately.

  MAKES 16 ROLLS

  NOTE These buns will keep, after steaming, 3 to 4 days, refrigerated. To reheat, steam 5 minutes. They may be frozen, after steaming, and will keep 2 to 3 months. To reheat, allow to defrost and steam 5 minutes, until very hot.

  THERE WERE SEVERAL MISADVENTURES ALONG THE way as I developed my own kitchen. I found, when I was pregnant with my first son, Christopher, th
at the aromas of Chinese cooking with which I was most familiar tended to make me nauseous. What to do? I cooked with several bottles of air freshener in the kitchen. Then, after my son’s birth I knew I had to make my sweet birth vinegar. It took several days to get a sufficient amount of black vinegar from Chinatown, and several visits to the butcher to get enough pigs’ feet. But I made it, virtually redecorating a kitchen wall in the process.

  Repeatedly, I was unable to buy wine, or spirits, even beer, because I looked too young. I recall going into a liquor shop to buy a bottle of white wine to use for cooking, and I was asked for identification. I told the clerk that I did not even have my green card with me. He refused. Another time, after my daughter was born I went to buy some beer, wheeling her into the store in a stroller. I told the clerk that she was my daughter, which he did not believe, and I was unable to buy beer.