Moganshan: the Meal

This is the story of a meal that became an adventure.

It all began when we decided to travel out of town for the weekend, which of course is made more dramatic by using public transportation, bringing a baby, and being in an unfamiliar foreign country.  I don’t want to belabor the first six or so hours of our trip, but the important part is that we arrived at our hostel completely famished, only to find out that their refreshments consisted of beer and snickers.  This would not satisfy.  Now, a wise traveler might ask the hostel caretakers for some suggestions of where to find food, but no no, not us arrogant fools.  We just ventured out towards what we thought might be “town” and began a long and desperate journey.

searching for food

either this is a restaurant, or things are about to get awkward

After miming various acts of eating while completely butchering the Mandarin words for restaurant, meal, food, and eat, the local farmers pointed us up a narrow winding road with a few houses dotted along it.  One had a beer billboard on the front and a “welcome” sign on the open door, which to us indicated that perhaps it was a restaurant.

our hostess

We walked in to find a precocious piggy-tailed girl playing on her computer.

I asked her – in Mandarin, go me! – where her parents were, and she lead us back out the front door and around the side of the building, where a woman was bent over hacking at something.  The girl indicated to her mother that they had visitors, and Mom gathered her duck and chicken (the “something” previously being hacked) and ushered us back into the house.

hostess, chef, and what would become our lunch in the bowl

Soon we were caught up in a whirlwind of herbal teas and shrink-wrapped dishes and a menu of all Chinese characters and no illustrations.  As I fumbled with my iPhone’s translator apps and Matt clumsily repeated what he thought was the Mandarin word for chicken and Paul wondered just how much beer could quench his hunger, the Mom-turned-chef had an epiphany.  She motioned for us to follow her through the house to the backyard, which – lo and behold – was the kitchen!

"kitchen"

Here she thrust various ingredients at us as we nodded in approval.  Bok choy looking vegetable?  Okay, that seems to be the town staple so it must be locally grown.  Eggs?  Yes, they come in their own little containers, sanitary and harmless.  Chicken?  Well, we saw the poor thing earlier so we know that’s fresh.  And with Matt’s recollection of the Mandarin words for rice and beer, we finalized our order.

I’m a little ashamed to say that once the food arrived, I was far too hungry to pause and snap photos.  There were chicken feet and gristle and all sorts of goodies chopped up into what we would recognize as meat, but it came in a delicious brown sauce with scallions.  There was a heaping pile of fresh scrambled eggs.  There was sautéed bok choy with ginger and garlic, crunchy and smooth all at once.  And finally there was steaming hot sticky rice to fill the last empty space in our stomachs.

It was nothing like we had experienced, and yet exactly as we expected.  Simple ingredients and complex flavors.  Familiar tastes in novel combinations.  Delicate dishes to satisfy hearty appetites.  Home cooking in a foreign place.  It was quite the meal.