tasty beijing snacks

Tasty Beijing snacks lack broad appeal
By Liang Hongfu (China Daily)
Updated: 2006-03-28 05:42

Last weekend, a friend who grew up in Beijing took it upon herself to
introduce me to the almost mystic world of traditional "small foods,"
or snacks, that have been the favourites of the capital city's natives
for centuries. I have read about these delicacies in many Chinese
novels, including the world famous Dream of the Red Chamber, and heard
them mentioned in numerous historical dramas. Although I have been
living in Beijing on and off for nearly two years, I've only had a
chance to eat a few of the vast variety of traditional Beijing snacks.

That is not because I have been unadventurous, but because the shops
serving and selling these foods are mostly located in alleys, or
hutong, that are known only to the city's natives. Even if you happen
to pass by one of these shops, you'd most likely be turned off by its
grubby appearance and the unsavoury foods on display in greasy cases.

That's a pity. Even for a Cantonese who is used to "dim sum" of a
hugely different style, I found some of the Beijing snacks quite tasty,
and they were cheap. But as an elderly gentleman sipping pungent dou
zhi, or fermented bean juice, lamented, traditional snacks seem to hold
little appeal to Beijing people, especially younger ones, who have
deserted in droves to US fast food outlets like McDonald's and Kentucky
Fried Chicken.

Like many other quality products that are long on tradition but short
on packaging, Beijing snack foods are loosing out to the many
Western-style varieties such as hamburgers, pretzels, donuts, cream
cakes and breads. It doesn't have to be this way.

Take the lowly wonton (dumpling) noodle soup in Hong Kong. It used to
be served mainly in the many roadside cooked food stalls in poor
neighbourhoods. A small bowl cost no more than 10 US cents. Patrons sat
on folding chairs or squatted on the pavement curbs while passing cars
threw up a cloud of dust.

When the Hong Kong economy took off in the 1970s, wonton noodle soup
was going the way of the Dodos as the many cooked food stalls where it
was served shut. That was the time when McDonald's and Kentucky Fried
Chicken opened in Hong Kong and Western-style pastries became the rage.

Wonton noodle soup were underground. The few places left that had
continued to serve this snack were known only to a few nostalgic food
lovers who didn't mind making the trek to these hole-in-the-wall
eateries in some run-down inner city neighbourhoods.

Recognizing the inherent appeal of traditional Cantonese fast foods and
snacks, an enterprising caterer opened an up-market restaurant
specializing in such cuisine in the posh neighbourhood of Happy Valley.
It was an instant hit among the many young professionals living in that
area. Word spread and the restaurant began drawing crowds from around
the city.

There, wanton noodle soup served in bone-china bowls cost US$5. The
bill for a regular meal for two could easily amount to more than US$20,
which was very high indeed in the early 80s when the average household
income was about US$300 a month.

Since then, traditional Cantonese fast foods and snacks have gone
up-market instead of down the drain. Now, wonton noodle restaurants
that serve a wide variety of other foods and snacks can be found in all
commercial and residential districts. They are fighting on an equal
footing with the many McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken's outlets
for market share.

The traditional Chinese cakes with a vast variety of fillings, ranging
from the simple bean paste to an elaborate combination of ham and nuts,
have also enjoyed a resurgence as a niche snack for the discerning few.
Each cake, the size of a small tea cup plate, is individually
vacuum-packed in fancy wrapper. This is a big step up from what it used
to be. I remember when I was a kid, a housemaid gave me a one wrapped
in old newspaper.

That image resurfaced in my mind on the morning when I bought a few
pieces of the wonderfully delicious wandouhuang, a kind of pea flour
mousse, from a small food stand in a hutong off Huguosi main street in
the western part of Beijing, and the shop keeper dumped them in a thin
plastic bag.

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(China Daily 03/28/2006 page4)