Wuhan’s Storied Snacks

by Ernie Diaz

Think back on your first visit to the Great Wall, or the Bund, or the Eiffel Tower. The view’s nice, the history is impressive, but what do you take away with you? The little things: the kooky sidewalk vendor, the graffiti, the dragon paperweight you decided not to buy after all. Definitely the food.

So no one can say what you’ll internalize about Wuhan. In one respect, it’s a noisy, drab mess, hard to distinguish from other second tier cities. It’s a pity for the local government’s PR department, but an edifying challenge for the Sinophile, or anyone who knows how silly city rankings are, in the subjective sense.

Lacking sufficient sports franchises, the Chinese have a long-standing tradition of deriding people from other provinces as untrustworthy. But only the Wuhanese have earned a nickname for their disingenuousness. They are the Nine-headed Birds, jiu tou niao, infamous for their power to outfox (outbird?).

Half of that negative publicity must spring from envy, though, because the Wuhanese boast some of the best snacks in China. “Thoroughfare to the nine provinces” since ancient times, Wuhan snacks blend rich hearty northern flavors with southern daintiness. A visit to one of Wuhan’s iconic snack houses, such as Sijimei, Laotongcheng, or Cailinji, will be remembered long after you’ve forgotten the Yellow Crane Tower.

Re4 Gan1 Mian4

Li Bao had a problem. It was a typically stifling Wuhan summer afternoon, forty degrees in the shade, and the noodles piled on his cart were starting to turn. This was the 1930s, when wasting food in China was an affront to the ancestors, so old Li decided to boil what was left and hold a fire sale. Such a huge mound on his chopping board proved unwieldy, however, causing Li to knock a bottle of sesame oil over, drenching the noodles. With no choice but to let his greasy noodles air dry, the philosophical Li took a nap under his cart.

He awoke as Wuhan’s furnace finally shut down for the evening, and examined his slick, dehydrated noodles. Either inspiration or desperation prompted him to toss them in a bowl with some spicy liangfeng sauce. The evening was cool and the noodles cold by the time he managed to sell some of his new concoction, but the customer’s reaction was so enthusiastic that Li soon had a crowd around his rickety old cart. “What do you call this, old man?” queried a lad with his mouth full. “Hot and dry noodles,” blurted old Li.

He managed to hold on to the secret of his reganmian long enough to make a bundle and retire from vending. Where he went and with how much remains unknown: in China, a rich man who is indiscreet soon becomes a poor man.

Ya1 Bo2

Those who cringe at the thought of snacking on a duck’s neck should examine their assumptions. Ribs, OK; hot dogs (slaughterhouse sweepings) OK; necks, yuck? Very well, but should you find yourself in Wuhan hungry enough to try something new, step in to Jingwu, a chain restaurant that made a name with duck necks. Marinated and cooked with a proprietary formula, Jingwu necks are a lip-smacking, tongue-tingling, greasy-fingered good time. And won’t you be able to play the Marco Polo on your next obligatory trip back home.

You: “And after we got out of the pedicab we stopped for duck necks.”

Family (in unison): “Ewwww!”

You (cavalierly): “No really, they’re quite good.”

Mother: “My exotic world traveler.”

The world is still most definitely not flat.

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Although small and obscure compared to its neighbor, Xiaogan city nonetheless rivals Wuhan in origins ancient enough to be wreathed in myth. It was here that Dongyong, the original Cinderella, moved the very heavens with his filial piety. Rather than see his dead father remain unburied for lack of funds, Dongyong sold himself into slavery, suffering daily degradations that Disney would be hard-put to spin in to family entertainment.

This all took place after Confucius had died, but before the gods ceased rewarding the humble. The seventh daughter of the Heavenly Emperor, fairy princess Qi Xian Nu, was stirred to love by Dongyong’s combined sacrifice, fortitude, and princely bearing (only attractive people dare hope for miracles). She descended to earth and married Dongyong, ennobling him and his family with her divine dowry.

Xiaogan chefs created humijiu as a delicacy befitting Qi Xian Nu’s ethereal grace. They simmered the harvest’s choicest rice grains into a delicate, fermented broth. To this they added tiny rice dumplings, translucent as Qi Xian Nu’s pearls. Fragrantly tangy and sweet, humijiu bestows a faintly alcoholic kick that puts earthly travail in perspective. May we all merit betrothal to a fairy, like Dongyong. And Liza Minelli.

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Upon a time, trees grew in Brooklyn, the sun shone in Linfen, and the water of the Yangtze was fit to drink. Wuchang, a once important vice-royalty since incorporated into Wuhan, sits next to where the Han river empties into the Yangtze, which in simpler times made the water there particularly vital.

Bream caught off Wuchang’s banks were sleek, their flesh astoundingly tender yet high in protein. Wuchang cooks long ago learned to treat the fish with a light hand, a brief steam to evince its natural savor. Wuchangyu enjoyed a reputation that inspired Chairman Mao to include it in his ode to swimming, his favorite extrarevolutionary activity:

I have just drunk the waters of Changsha

And come to eat the fish of Wuchang.

Now I am swimming across the great Yangtze,

Looking afar to the open sky of Chu.

Let the wind blow and waves beat,

Better far than idly strolling in a courtyard.

Today I am at ease.

Say what you will about his poetry; the man knew how to chill.

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