I love imperial-style banquets. But I find one of China’s most famous dishes, braised bear paw, overrated. Connoisseurs insist on left paws, softer and more succulent because bears lick them more frequently than right paws. Boned and simmered, the padded cushions are sliced wafer thin and served with small game birds. The taste is lackluster, and the thought of how it’s butchered hard to stomach. Still-, this Manchurian delicacy is so popular some restaurants keep wild bears in cages out back for last-minute feasts.
One of China’s most seductive dishes is snake soup sprinkled with aromatic wisps of chrysanthemum petal. For a spicier treat, there is snake meat stir-fried with civet cat (looks like an elongated raccoon) and a little red chili; it’s called “The Dragon Battling the Tiger.” When the Chinese say snake is “hot,” they’re talking folk medicine, not temperature. Superstition has it that it’s better to partake of snake during cold weather. As Confucius once said: “A great person eats nothing out of season.”
Speaking of Confucius, I found several subtle specialties in his hometown of Qufu in eastern China. Deep-fried scorpion is the star on the menu of the Confucius family mansion, which has been transformed into a hotel. The arachnids arrive crisp and golden on a pristine white platter, with their tiny gossamer talons outstretched. They have virtually no flavor, but the crunchy texture is sensational. Eat just a few; scorpion is supposed to have cancer preventing qualities but it’s risky in large doses. Not so admirable was an earthier-tasting banquet chaser: fried cicada grubs.
Avoid pangolin stew, which is a big disappointment not only for its musty taste but because the animal is an endangered species. Some restaurateurs sell pangolin, which looks like an armadillo with pointy scales, only under the table. They worry about Chinese authorities who have declared it a protected animal. Seldom do I turn down an adventurous dish, but you have to draw the line somewhere. While you’re at it, call the World Wildlife Fund.
Man’s best friend finds its way into woks in many parts of China. When I sampled the dog meat at an open-air market in Yunnan province recently, however, I was disappointed. A good dog should taste like tender veal. But I found this meat cold, greasy and the flavor obscure. This made the normal qualms about consuming a household companion even harder to swallow. The service also left something to be desired–that is, unless you enjoy seeing a cook heedlessly attack the hindquarters of a roast dog with a cleaver.
After exploring the Chinese back roads for more than a decade, I thought I’d eaten everything. Then I stopped by Zhang Guoxun’s restaurant, a delightful and trendy-establishment in downtown Guangzhou. Proprietor Zhang’s specialty is free-range field vole-better known as rat. Zhang insists these are healthy rodents caught by rural peasants more than 40 miles outside the city and raised on roots and berries, but they looked like any old sewer rats. Besides Vietnamese-style rat hot pot, he also serves rat kebab, crisp-fried rat with lemon and “German style” peppered rat. Aficionados say the piquant flavor is a cross between dog and frog.
Unfortunately, the restaurant’s recent popularity led to demand’s outstripping supply. It was fresh out of rat, Only during my last hours in Guangzhou did Zhang receive a new cage of plump, hissing rodents. He prepared them by dunking the creatures, weighing up to a pound and squealing and struggling, into a pail of boiling water to be defurred. One even escaped from the bucket and ran across my shoe. I was all set to sample a rat kebab, then suddenly I glanced at my watch. Rats: I was late for the train to Hong Kong, and would just have to take a pass.
