A Uighur man grills lamb streetside in Kashgar, in western Xinjiang. He sprinkles on seasonings with his right hand and fans the charcoal with the board in his left.
When we catch the aroma of lamb grilling over a wood fire or charcoal, we’re always transported instantly to Central Asia: nomads, desert sands, and clear night skies. The recipes in this chapter come from the wide-open spaces—that is, from greater Tibet, Inner Mongolia, Xinjiang, and neighboring Qinghai. Yaks, goats, and sheep are raised in open grasslands, often by nomads—the yaks in colder climates, in mostly Tibetan areas and in the Pamir Mountains, the sheep and goats in the hills and the oases of Xinjiang. (Recipes from the more settled mild-climate areas beyond the Great Wall are found in the Pork chapter.)
Nomads cook meat either by grilling it over an open fire or by simmering it in a pot. You’ll find two classic Central Asian grills here: small pieces of lamb threaded on skewers (Uighur Lamb Kebabs, page 260) and spiced ground lamb wrapped around skewers (Keshmah Kebabs, page 262), both succulent and transporting.
With the growth of towns and cities and improved transportation and communications, traditional ways of cooking have evolved in various ways. The simple Mongolian hot pot of the nomad ger (yurt) has been adapted in towns to include an array of condiments and vegetables, and it is a very delicious and interesting way to entertain guests (see page 266). So is Mongolian Barbecue (page 263), with meat quickly cooked at the table, then eaten with a delicious array of side dishes and flavorings. In Tibet, Chinese stir-frying techniques have been adopted by many townspeople, and a greater access to vegetables has also changed traditional meat cooking (see Beef with Mushrooms and Cellophane Noodles, page 280, and Beef and Green Chile Stir-Fry, page 287).
Two varieties of bok choi: regular bok choi (left) and Shanghai bok choi (right). Both varieties are also sold when smaller as “baby bok choi.”
Uighur Lamb Kebabs
The Uighur people of Xinjiang speak a Turkic language, and the connection with other Turkic peoples comes through clearly with the food as well. Because of the pomegranate juice, these marinated lamb kebabs have a tart-edged garlicky taste that could almost have come straight from Istanbul. The meat is very succulent, and the grilling straightforward. If you have any left over, it is as tasty as can be the second day.
Serve with flatbreads or rice or noodles, accompanied by a salsa and one or more salads: Cooling Oasis Salad with Tomatoes and Herbs (page 89), Onion and Pomegranate Salad (page 89), and/or Cucumbers in Black Rice Vinegar (page 83).
1 pound boneless lamb leg or shoulder
MARINADE
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
¼ cup pomegranate juice, or substitute ¼ cup fresh lemon juice mixed with 1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon finely chopped garlic
¾ teaspoon cayenne
Cut the lamb into small pieces, approximately 1 inch square, leaving on a little fat. Set aside.
Process the onion to a paste in a food processor. Transfer to a medium bowl and stir in the remaining marinade ingredients. Add the lamb pieces and stir so they are all coated with marinade. Cover and let sit for 2 hours in the refrigerator.
Prepare a medium-hot fire in a charcoal grill or preheat a gas grill. If using bamboo skewers, soak 8 skewers in water for 30 minutes.
Thread the pieces of meat onto 8 bamboo or metal skewers (the latter are used in the photograph). Don’t crowd them; the pieces of meat should barely touch one another.
Place the skewers on the hot grill, about 4 to 5 inches from the coals. Grill for 2 minutes on the first side, then turn. Cook for 7 to 8 minutes more, turning periodically to ensure good color and even cooking. Cooking times will vary somewhat depending on whether you use bamboo or metal skewers and on the heat of your grill, and whether you wish to leave the lamb pink in the middle or to cook it right through.
Serve on the skewers, on a platter.
Serves 4 to 6 as a main course
These kebabs from Xinjiang, made of ground lamb, resemble the ground meat kebabs found all the way from Turkey to Pakistan. But ground meat is not always easy to work with for a kebab, at least it hasn’t been for us. First there is the problem of getting the meat to stay on the skewers, and then there’s the problem of the kebabs sticking to the grill. So we started to experiment, and here are a few techniques that have worked well for us.
If you have wide flat metal skewers, the meat will hold its shape well, but if not, you can improvise. We use cheap wooden chopsticks, the kind you often get with Chinese take-out, that come stuck together in pairs and wrapped in paper. We use the two sticks as one skewer, without pulling them apart; the added surface area helps the ground meat adhere better.
With regard to the meat sticking to the grill, we came up with a system where the meat cooks above the grill, not on it, so it can’t stick. In Xinjiang, grilling is done over a long narrow metal box that holds the coals. The ends of the skewers rest on either side of the metal box, so the meat is suspended over the heat (see photo, page 258). We used this idea as our starting point: We lay two long metal bars across the grill (rebar, available at Home Depot and other building supply stores, works fine, or use any other metal bars you can find), parallel to each other and about 8 inches apart. We rest the ends of the chopstick-skewers on the metal bars, so the meat is suspended above the grill and doesn’t touch it. The arrangement is like a tiny rotisserie. A little improvisational, but it works—and the kebabs taste great!
Serve the kebabs with flatbreads or rice or noodles and a salad such as Pea Tendril Salad (page 66) or Silk Road Tomato–Bell Pepper Salad (page 72).
1 pound boneless lamb or goat leg or shoulder, trimmed of membranes, cut into chunks, and chilled
About ½ cup minced lamb or goat fat (see Lamb in Glossary)
1 medium onion, diced
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
¾ teaspoon ground cumin, preferably freshly ground
Leaf lettuce and/or sprigs of mint or coriander for garnish
Combine the chilled meat, fat, onion, eggs, salt, pepper, and ground cumin in a food processor and process until the ingredients form a paste, several minutes. Transfer to a bowl, cover, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Divide the meat into 8 portions. Shape it into oval patties about 4 inches long and place them on 8 wide metal skewers or chopstick-skewers (see headnote). Lay them on a plate, cover, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Arrange two metal bars on your charcoal or gas grill (see headnote), so the kebabs will be 4 to 5 inches above the flame, and prepare a medium-hot fire in the charcoal grill or preheat the gas grill.
Place the skewers on the bars and cook for 8 to 10 minutes, turning regularly to ensure even browning.
Serve hot from the grill, on the skewers, with leaf lettuce and/or fresh herbs.
Serves 4 to 6 as a main course
Thinly sliced lamb is now widely available at Korean groceries and some other East Asian groceries. When we first saw it for sale, beautifully thin slices of lamb lying pink and perfect under cellophane wrapping, we couldn’t imagine what the market for it was. But in fact barbecuing at the table (“Mongolian barbecue”), as well as Mongolian hot pot, is starting to become very popular. Thin slices of lamb or beef are an essential ingredient for both.
At its origins, Mongolian barbecue is a way of cooking slices of meat on hot metal over a fire. The name in Chinese, kao rou, means just that: cook meat. Once you figure out your at-the-table cooking arrangements, the rest is easy. The special Mongolian barbecue pan (called a tan guo in Mandarin) used in homes and restaurants in Inner Mongolia is a convex cast-iron skillet, with a surface 12 inches across that slopes gently from the dome down toward the sides. The pan is placed on an electric hot plate or a small propane stove on the table. We have not seen these pans for sale here, but we find that a wide, well-seasoned cast-iron griddle or heavy skillet makes a great barbecue pan, and we use a small portable propane stove to heat it. Whatever your heat source, make sure you are cooking in a well-ventilated room.
The meat cooks directly on the metal surface. Rather than oiling the pan, we lightly oil the meat slices, because they get better color that way. If your pan starts to accumulate liquid, drain it off into a small pitcher; guests can use the juices to flavor their condiment blends if they wish. The important thing is that the meat not boil in liquid, but instead sear on the hot metal.
Once you’ve figured out your equipment and bought thinly sliced meat, or sliced it yourself, all you need to prepare are the sauces and condiments. You might also want a side dish of salad as a nontraditional accompaniment (Green Papaya Salad with Chiles, page 78, is a nice option, as is Silk Road Tomato–Bell Pepper Salad, page 72) along with plain rice, or Home-Style Tajik Nan (page 191) or pita breads, cut into wedges.
At each place at the table, put out a small plate, two pairs of chopsticks (one for cooking and one for eating), and several small condiment bowls. As with Mongolian hot pot, we feel that a group of four is the largest number that works easily with this centralized way of cooking. Any more, and the cooking surface gets crowded and hungry guests can start to feel frustrated.
1 pound boneless beef or lamb, trimmed of fat and chilled, then thinly sliced and cut into approximately 2-by-1-inch pieces
1 teaspoon salt
About 1 tablespoon peanut oil
CONDIMENTS AND DIPPING SAUCES
½ cup soy sauce
½ cup Jinjiang (black rice) vinegar
¾ cup ginger cut into small matchsticks
3 tablespoons Guizhou Chile Paste (page 35), Bright Red Chile Paste (page 18), or store-bought chile paste
Grasslands Herb Salsa (page 23)
Put the beef or lamb slices in a bowl, add the salt, and toss, then add the oil and toss to coat. Transfer to a platter. Put out the condiments and sauces.
Set a cast-iron skillet or flat cast-iron griddle over a small tabletop stove. Heat over medium-high heat until hot. Call your guests to the table and invite them to place a little of one or two condiments into their condiment bowls and to mix flavors if they wish. Then show them how to proceed: Place several slices of meat on the hot skillet or griddle. Cook briefly on the first side, less than a minute, then turn them over with chopsticks and cook on the other side. Lift off onto your plate, or serve to guests to get them started. Dip a slice of meat lightly into some flavoring, then eat. Cook and season and eat at leisure, mixing and matching flavors.
Serves 4 as a main course
Some kind of especially wonderful traveler’s luck seemed to be with me on my last trip to Lhasa. The two different places I stayed (the Kyichu Hotel and the Snowland Hotel) were converging points for foreigners and ex-pat Tibetans who were in Lhasa pursuing a variety of interesting projects, from establishing a wildlife preserve to discovering and cataloguing centuries-old Tibetan texts. I’d find myself listening to discussions about bear species, or overgrazing issues, or about the Mongolian invasion of Tibet in the fourteenth century.
But the luckiest encounter of all took place in the courtyard of the Ramoche, a temple in the old city. During the Cultural Revolution, the Ramoche was ransacked, and when I first visited it in 1985, there were still slogans on the walls and unrepaired damage everywhere. These days it’s a lively place, humming with prayer, aromatic with the scent of butter lamps (the wick floats in melted butter, which is the lamp oil) and butter offerings, and very well cared for. Outside the gates are stalls selling prayer flags and incense, just as there are vendors of votive candles near cathedrals in Europe.
I was watching the comings and goings in the Ramoche courtyard when I met Nima Dorje and Elisabeth. They were waiting for Nima’s cousin, who is the monk-manager there and who was going to escort them around the temple. Nima invited me to join them. As we walked, I learned that Nima had fled Tibet as a young man in 1959 along with many others, including the Dalai Lama. He and Elisabeth had met and married in the United States, where they now live.
Nima is originally from a very old village in Chamdo (sometimes written Qamdo), the large region in eastern Tibet that now is divided between the Tibetan Autonomous Region and the province of Sichuan. It’s an area of high mountains and deep river valleys, where people have eked out a living for centuries by herding animals and cultivating a few hardy vegetables, such as carrots and turnips and, more recently, potatoes. Staples of the diet are dried yak meat, butter (added to tea), dried cheese, yogurt, and tsampa, with the odd dried or pickled radish or other green. Nima still has family in his home village. Starting in 1984, when he made his first trip back to Tibet since fleeing so long before, he and Elisabeth have made a visit every three years to his village. Each time, they need to get special permission from the authorities, for the area is closed to casual travelers. The trip from Lhasa, which used to take several months in the fifties on foot or horseback, before there were roads, can now be done in three days by car.
Afterward, we went up to the cousin’s apartment for lunch. There we feasted on a variety of dishes (yak meat stir-fried with potato, yak with eggplant and tomato, and more) all served with rice, and we drank tea, sweet milk tea or salty butter tea, as we chose. Elisabeth told me that every time they come to Lhasa, Nima’s many friends and the family members who live there all want them to share a meal. Their room at the Snowland Hotel is like a permanent open house.
For the next few days, until Nima and Elisabeth left for eastern Tibet, I watched the stream of visitors bringing gifts of tea and food. And I learned a great deal as I sat in their room watching and listening, not only by asking questions and having the chance to taste a lot of home cooking, but, more important, by seeing how people related to one another. It was a rare privilege. N
A young monk carries a Buddha statue at Sera Monastery, not far from Lhasa in central Tibet. Starting in the 1980s, the monasteries and temples in Tibet began to rebuild and repair images and structures that had been damaged or destroyed during the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976). The work still goes on.
Near a Mongol village in the Altai Mountains of northern Xinjiang, two Mongol men on horseback, with a camel, head out into the mountains.
Hot pot (see “Hot Pot at Home and Away,” page 269) is a communal meal, a way of sharing food from the same pot. It’s most practical with no more than four people, so you can keep track of your pieces of meat and vegetables and not feel crowded. This way of eating together is rather intimate, so share your hot pot with relaxed good friends, and enjoy!
The recipe here is a kind of deconstruction of the Mongolian nomad original. It’s how lamb hot pot is commonly served in restaurants in Inner Mongolia, a way of cooking and eating at the table, a form of fondue, if you like. The broth is made ahead from lamb or goat bones (the easiest way is to buy a leg or shoulder, cut the meat from the bones, use the bones to make the broth, and slice the meat for use in the hot pot). Then the broth is used to cook the meat and the vegetables at the table.
BROTH
About 2 pounds lamb bones (from a 4½- to 5½-pound lamb leg or shoulder) or 1 pound lamb shank, cut into pieces
10 cups water
3 slices peeled ginger
2 scallions, cut into 2-inch lengths
HOT POT
One 1-pound package thin rice sticks (dried rice noodles)
1½ to 2 pounds boneless lamb leg or shoulder, trimmed of excess fat and chilled, then very thinly sliced into approximately 1-by-2-inch slices
2 cups thinly sliced mushrooms
12 leaves romaine or leaf lettuce, coarsely torn (about 2 cups)
1 cup frozen tofu (see Glossary), cut into 1-inch cubes (optional)
8 Chinese red dates (optional; see Glossary)
¼ to ½ cup coarsely chopped coriander
CONDIMENTS (choose at least three)
½ cup Guizhou Chile Paste (page 35) or Bright-Red Chile Paste (page 18), or store-bought chile paste
Cucumbers in Black Rice Vinegar (page 83)
1 cup Soy-Vinegar Dipping Sauce (page 151)
1 cup chopped pickled mustard greens (see Glossary)
½ cup Mongolian Roasted Garlic Paste (page 28)
Grasslands Herb Salsa (page 23)
3 tablespoons minced ginger
Wash the bones or the shank. Place in a large pot, add the water, and bring to a vigorous boil. Skim off any scum, then add the ginger and scallions. Lower the heat to maintain a simmer and cook, partially covered, for 2 hours if using bones, 45 minutes if using shank. Strain the broth through a colander into another pot. If you wish, you can strain the broth a second time through a cheesecloth-lined sieve.
Discard the bones and flavorings; if you used shank, cut the meat off the bone and set aside. If you have the time, cool the broth and then refrigerate it, covered. The fat will rise to the surface and congeal, and it will be easy to remove. In either case, skim off the fat, or remove and reserve for another purpose if desired. (See Cooking Oils and Fats in the Glossary for instructions on rendering and storing fat.) You should have 6 to 8 cups broth; if necessary, add water to bring it to 8 cups. (The broth can be made ahead and stored well sealed in the refrigerator for up to 2 days or frozen for up to 1 month.)
Place the dried rice noodles in a large bowl. Add warm water to cover, and set aside to soak for 10 minutes. Drain the noodles and set aside in a bowl.
Arrange the meat, vegetables, and tofu on a platter. Put the condiments on the table. For each guest, put out a plate, two pairs of chopsticks (one for cooking, one for eating), two condiment bowls, and a small soup bowl.
Bring the broth to a boil. Add the dates, if using, and ¼ cup chopped coriander. Transfer to a hot pot or place the pot on a small stove or hot plate in the center of the table. Call your guests to the table. Invite them to take several condiments, and to blend and mix—for example, adding a little chile paste to the chopped cucumbers in vinegar. Then suggest they add several mushroom pieces each and some greens to the pot and wait for them to cook and soften before lifting them out and eating them, plain or dipped in a condiment. Then have them try the other ingredients, cooking a small amount each time, then lifting them out to their plates before seasoning them and eating. (If the broth runs low, add a cup or more of hot water to it and bring back to a boil.)
Once everyone has eaten his or her fill, add the soaked noodles to the broth and cook until softened and heated through, about 3 minutes. Use chopsticks to distribute the noodles among the soup bowls, then ladle broth over and sprinkle on the remaining ¼ cup coriander leaves, if you wish.
Serves 4 as a main course
Tibetan-style Buddhist monastery and prayer flags in Inner Mongolia, not far from the Russian border at Manzhouli. The monastery is in good repair but there are very few monks so it feels more like a museum than a place of prayer.
Driver Lin (see page 307) took me to a small eatery by a dirt road out in the grasslands north of Hailar in Inner Mongolia. There were several rough tables inside, with three or four guys seated at each, all eating their way through mountains of cooked lamb and washing it down with beer. We sat down to a huge late lunch of boiled meats: lamb, heart, lung, liver, kidney, and tongue, as well as several sausages—blood sausage, a kind of lamb boudin blanc, and a lamb sausage green with aromatics—all accompanied by the lamb broth. It was like a meat marathon, that meal. I imagined that in earlier times when an animal was killed for a feast, the meal the Mongols ate would have been like the food in the restaurant: platters piled high with various parts of the animal, all simmered until done, and the sound of bones being gnawed and tossed on the ground when chewed clean. It reminded me of medieval feasts I’d read about.
This one-dish way of cooking, which most nomadic people have developed in some form, is very practical, for it requires just one pot and one fire. The Mongols who live out in the grasslands in gers still cook this way, and Mongolian hot pot is the precursor of hot pot traditions in many parts of Asia. We’ve eaten hot pot in Sichuan, in Beijing, and in Guizhou and Guangzhou, as well as in Cambodia and Vietnam. Each version reflected the local ingredients and the local palate. The basic idea is that all the elements of the meal are cooked at the table in a hot broth, like a fondue, each person cooking pieces of meat and vegetables and then eating them plain or flavored with an assortment of condiments, as he or she wishes.
There are several ways the central pot and broth can be kept hot at the table. Doughnut-shaped hot pots can be found in large Chinese grocery stores. The pots have a central cone in which solid fuel or a gas flame burns, and the soup is in the ring around the heated central cone. Another method, used in hot pot restaurants, involves a specially built table with a hole cut out of the center, in which a pot can rest. The pot is heated by a gas or electric burner underneath it. This design is also found in homes in Inner Mongolia and elsewhere in China. Several of the households I ate at in eastern Guizhou kept the family soup hot using a similar hole-in-the-table arrangement, with a gas burner underneath.
If you don’t wish to mess with cutting a hole in a table (!) or setting up a traditional hot pot, you can just use a low-tech little portable gas stove or electric burner placed in the center of a low table. (Another option is to use a deep electric frying pan.) It all becomes very simple: Bring the water or broth to a boil on your stovetop, then transfer the heated pot to the portable stove set at low to medium heat (or transfer the hot liquid to the electric frying pan). We suggest a low table because that way guests can easily see into the pot and reach in with chopsticks. As the meal progresses, the level of the broth will drop; add a little more hot water if you need to in order to have enough cooking liquid. N
The food-prep area at the small open-air restaurant in Turpan Zheng, with greens, lamb, and soy sprouts, and three plates of cooked stir-fry, ready to be served with flatbreads.
On a trip along the Silk Road long ago (see “Kashgar, 1986,” page 112), we made a stop in Turpan Zheng. We had a long all-day wait for the overnight train that would take us west to Kulcha, so we stored our bags and bicycles at the station and went poking around, looking for something to eat and a good way to pass the day.
Turpan Zheng is the station for the Turpan oasis twenty miles away (see “Turpan Depression,” page 200), so it has an improvised air to it, as junctions and border towns often do. It caters to people passing through, just as the oases of yesteryear did good business selling food and supplies to the merchants and travelers moving along the Silk Road. There was a long, dusty crooked street with little shops selling everything from saddlery for ponies to rope and twine to lengths of fabric. And everywhere there were small eateries hustling for business. Each one consisted of a woven roof to provide shade from the intense desert sun, a clay tandoor oven for baking nan (see Uighur Nan, page 190), and a counter where noodle dough could be rolled out or bread dough kneaded. All of them had a gas burner too, for wok cooking, and beside it were piles of uncooked food, whatever was available that day: a heap of chopped lamb, a tumble of green vegetables, perhaps some tomatoes or peppers, and, in several places, soybean sprouts in a pale gleaming-white pile dotted with yellow.
We stopped at one little eatery, sat down at a table in the shade of the trellis, and ordered lamb with sprouts (see Silk Road Lamb Stir-Fry with Sprouts and Greens, page 276).
Mongolian Lamb Patties with Lhasa Yellow Achar (page 28).
Here is our version of the herbed lamb sausages I ate with pleasure out in the Hulun Buir grasslands (see “Hot Pot at Home and Away,” page 269), flavored with generous amounts of minced scallions, coriander leaves, ginger, and garlic. Lamb sausage casings can be hard to find, so we use pork casings. Make the sausages 24 hours before you wish to cook them, so they have time to dry a little and firm up.
To serve the sausages, cut into slices and present on a plate along with one or more condiments, such as Quick Tomato-Onion Chutney (page 24), Lhasa Yellow Achar (page 28), Mongolian Roasted Garlic Paste (page 28), and/or Guizhou Chile Paste (page 35). You could also include them in a Mongolian Hot Pot (page 266), cooking them in the broth.
If you prefer not to make sausages, the mixture makes delicious lamb patties for grilling or frying. They are less traditional but much easier and quicker. Serve with slices of cucumber and with lettuce leaves, accompanied by some of the condiments above.
Instructions for both patties and sausages are below.
1 pound boneless lean lamb shoulder or leg, well chilled, or 1¼ pounds ground lamb
¼ pound (about ½ cup packed) coarsely chopped lamb fat (if not using ground lamb; see Note)
1 cup coarsely chopped garlic chives or 4 large garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
1 cup coarsely chopped scallions (white and tender green parts)
2 cups coriander leaves and stems
3 tablespoons minced ginger
1½ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper (optional)
About a 3-foot length of pork casings if making sausages
Vegetable oil or peanut oil if panfrying
If using lamb shoulder or leg, cut the chilled meat into thin slices. Place the lamb fat in the food processor and process to a paste. Add the meat and process just until a springy pink ball forms. Turn out into a bowl and set aside. If using ground lamb, place in a bowl and set aside.
Place the garlic chives or garlic in the processor and pulse to finely chop, then add the scallions, coriander, and ginger and pulse to mince them. Alternatively, mince the garlic chives or garlic, scallions, coriander, and ginger by hand.
Add the flavorings to the meat, along with the salt and the pepper, if using, and use your fingers to blend the greens into the meat (we find this results in a better texture than mixing the two in the processor). Cover well with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
TO MAKE SAUSAGES: Untangle the sausage casing and rinse well under cold water. Open one end with your fingers and place it under a gently running tap so that the water flows through the casing and rinses it. Squeeze the water out of the casing, and tie a simple knot in one end.
Unless you have a mechanical sausage maker, the easiest way of stuffing the sausages is to use a 2-quart plastic soda bottle. Cut it crosswise into two pieces, about 6 inches from the bottom. The top half is your new sausage-making tool.
Pick up the sausage casing and fit the open end over the top of the soda bottle, then slide it along the neck of the bottle as far as it will go (about 1 inch). With the top pointing away from you and the cut edge braced against your torso, use both hands to slide the rest of the sausage casing up onto the neck of the bottle; it may seem at first as if it won’t fit, but it will, and the work goes quickly. Once it’s all on except the knotted end, hold it firmly on the neck with the fingers of one hand.
Take the sausage mixture out of the refrigerator. With your free hand, scoop up a small handful of the mixture and place it inside the top of the bottle, then use your index finger to push it through the neck of the bottle into the casing. It’s easiest to fill the casing if you’re working very close to the bottle, so hold tightly to the casing and bottle top with the fingers of one hand to maintain tension as you stuff the casing, gradually releasing a little more of it until you have 4 inches of tightly stuffed casing. The stuffing is soft, so force it tightly into the casing; try to keep air out of the casing. Twist the casing to seal off the first sausage, twisting it 4 or 5 times to make a space before the next one. Continue to make sausages, maintaining tension and trying to fill each one full without air bubbles. Your hands will soon get comfortable, and you’ll be surprised at how quickly you reach the end of the length of casing. (Note: As you twist later sausages, make sure the earlier ones don’t come untwisted. If they do, twirl them again.)
Tie a knot to seal off the last sausage (like tying off a balloon) and lay the sausages on a plate in a loose coil. (If you have any filling left over, you can use it for patties to fry or grill; see below.) Cover loosely and refrigerate for 24 hours. The sausages will give off a little liquid, which you should pour off, and they’ll firm up.
You can fry the sausages in a little oil in a large heavy skillet over medium heat or grill them over a moderate flame. Prick them all over with a fork, toothpick, or fine skewer before cooking. Panfry or grill for about 10 minutes, turning them to expose all sides to the heat.
To serve, cut into long diagonal slices and set out on a plate, along with a condiment or two.
TO MAKE LAMB PATTIES: Scoop up a scant 3 tablespoons (a golf-ball-sized clump) of the chilled meat mixture and shape into a firm patty about 2½ inches across and ¾ to 1 inch thick. (This size is easy to handle in the pan or on the grill.) Set on a plate, and repeat with the remaining mixture, to make 16 patties.
Place a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat and add about 1 tablespoon oil. Add the patties in batches and panfry for about 4 minutes on each side to cook them through, less for a pinker interior; add a little more oil if necessary. Alternatively, prepare a medium-hot fire in a charcoal grill or preheat a gas grill. Grill the patties for about 4 minutes per side, or until done as you like. Serve with your choice of condiments.
Makes about 8 sausages, serving 4 to 6 as a main course with rice or potatoes or noodles, and a vegetable side dish, or 16 patties, serving 5 to 6 as part of a meal
NOTE ON LAMB FAT: You can ask your butcher for lamb fat, or else trim it from roasts and chops. Store it in the freezer so you have it on hand.
I don’t know why Albeyat did it, asking me to drive, but I think it made him happy. I think it gave him as much pleasure as it gave me, maybe more. We had a Kazakh version of the theme song from Titanic blasting on the tape player, and we had the windows down. Each of us had an arm hooked at the elbow stretched outside. I’d drunk a beer just a short time before, sitting in the midday sun in the crisp alpine air of Kanas Lake, sitting with Tuvan and Kazakh friends, but I wasn’t too worried about my driving. With potholes the size of Xinjiang watermelons and a sea of humanity walking on the road, I wasn’t going to reach ten miles an hour, let alone twenty. But I had to use my horn a lot, and I think that’s the reason Albeyat wanted me to drive.
Kanas Lake is a newly discovered hot spot on the domestic tourist circuit. People come here by the thousands from Shanghai, Hong Kong, Shenzhen, Chengdu, Guangzhou, Beijing—all of China’s newly rich. They come especially in September, same as me, for the autumn colors, the brilliant yellow of the poplars and larches. Just like people from the West, they come with brand-name backpacks, Gore-Tex jackets, and hiking boots, and, of course, digital cameras, video cameras, and cell phones. It’s just like being in Yellowstone National Park, only in China.
The night before, I’d slept in a yurt with a Kazakh and two Tuvans. We’d stayed up late at night, working our way through an English-Kazakh phrasebook, finding ways to keep our conversation going. I had a list of Kazakh words from the Internet, from a site for families in North America who had adopted Kazakh babies. We laughed at phrases like “Do you have to pee-pee?” (See es-in-pah pee pee?) and words such as bunny (koy-an) and hamster (tish-kan). We drank beer and bai jiu (white liquor; see “Beer, Etc.,” page 340), of course, and we ate a Kazakh pulao with shreds of carrot and big pieces of goat shank, gnawing away, bone after bone, as we laughed.
“Do you like China?” I asked at one point, and then, “Would you rather live in Kazakhstan?” It was a complicated question, I knew, but our conversation had already touched on all these things. They conferred a bit, and then wrote out on a piece of paper: “Genghiskhanistan.”
“That’s what we would like,” they said, “Genghiskhanistan: Mongols, Kazakhs, Tuvans, Tatars.”
Honk, honk, honk.
Kanas is a Tuvan town, but the Tuvans are now a tourist attraction. The Kazakhs live on the periphery, with no bathroom facilities, without running water. They take tourists on horseback rides and hear karaoke music blaring at night.
Honk, honk, honk. J
Kazakh yurt and Tuvan wood house near Kanas Lake, northern Xinjiang.
This is our version of the dish that came to the table one day in Turpan Zheng (see “Silk Road Lunch,” page 271). It was served on large plates, with a stack of flatbreads alongside. We could have had it over noodles, and that’s an option for this stir-fry, though we usually serve it, non-traditionally, with rice.
1 tablespoon peanut oil or vegetable oil or rendered lamb fat (see Glossary)
1 tablespoon minced garlic
¼ teaspoon ground cumin
About ½ pound boneless lamb, trimmed of most fat, and cut into small bite-sized pieces (about 1 cup)
¾ pound (about 4 cups) soybean sprouts (see Note on Soybean Sprouts)
⅔ to ¾ pound Taiwan bok choi or other leafy green, cut crosswise into 2-inch-wide strips (see Note on Greens)
½ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons Jinjiang (black rice) vinegar
Place a large wok or wide heavy skillet over high heat. Add the oil and swirl to coat the pan. Toss in the garlic and cumin and stir-fry briefly, then add the lamb and stir-fry until all surfaces have changed color, a couple of minutes. Add the bean sprouts and stir-fry for about a minute. Add the greens and salt and stir-fry for 2 to 3 minutes, then test the sprouts for doneness. When the beans at the ends of the sprouts are beginning to soften, add the soy sauce and vinegar. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 more minutes, or until the beans are tender (timing will vary with the size of your pan).
Turn out onto a platter and serve.
Serves 3 or 4 as a main course
NOTE ON SOYBEAN SPROUTS: Unlike the finer-textured mung bean sprouts, which are most commonly available, soybean sprouts come with the bright yellow or green soybean still attached. They take longer to cook than mung bean sprouts, but they never turn soft or mushy, and their resilience is a boon when you are cooking for a crowd. Classic Chinese practice is to break off the beans before cooking the sprouts, but that is not how things are done in more remote places. Cooking the sprouts with the beans still attached results in a lovely contrast in texture between the tender sprouts and firm beans. If you can’t find soy sprouts, substitute mung bean sprouts, but add them with the greens and cook until just tender.
NOTE ON GREENS: There’s a huge array of Chinese greens grown in the oases of Xinjiang. What’s available depends on the time of year. We imagine that in winter this dish would be made with sprouts alone, or perhaps with some pickled greens as well, instead of the fresh greens that were on offer in late May. (A little later in the season, some cooks would toss in a chopped tomato or two for color and reduce the vinegar a little.) Taiwan bok choi looks like long tender romaine, with long medium to narrow leaves growing from a small compact green base. To prepare it, wash it well and then cut crosswise into approximately 1½- to 2-inch-wide strips. The stems have a little crunch and the leaves wilt quickly. Substitute any leafy green you wish—romaine lettuce, for example.
Silk Road shave: a Uighur barber and a customer checking the fineness of his work, streetside in Kashgar, western Xinjiang.
During the time that I was in the northern part of Xinjiang province, primarily with Kazakh and Tuvan people, I don’t recall a single long conversation when the subject of horses didn’t come up at least once.
“I have sixteen horses,” I was told by Albeyat.
“I have twelve horses,” said Serik.
“I have twenty-two horses,” said another.
Horses are everywhere, and people ride horses as if they were born on one, effortlessly and gracefully. It’s beautiful to watch, especially for someone like me, who can’t ride at all. Upon leaving the Kazakh regions of Xinjiang, I promised myself that I would return only once I’d learned to ride a horse, but now I’m wondering how that’s going to happen. I grew up in Wyoming, where a lot of people know how to ride, yet every time I tried riding as a child, something went wrong. Horses are so big and they can run so fast!
I’ll probably just stick to cooking Kazakh dishes, like this slow-cooked goat stew. It reminds us more of a Moroccan tagine than it does a stew, its reduced broth so full of flavor. Accompany with boiled potatoes, or rice, or Kazakh Family Loaf (page 195) to help sop up the gravy.
MARINADE
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
¼ cup rice vinegar
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
STEW
1¼ to 1½ pounds goat shank or lamb shank, cut into 2-inch pieces (you can have the butcher do this)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil or rendered lamb fat (see Glossary)
1 large onion, diced
3 carrots, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks
2 tomatoes, cut into ½-inch chunks
2 cups lamb or other light broth or water
1 teaspoon salt
2 or 3 bay leaves
½ cup or more coriander leaves, chopped arugula, or minced scallion greens for garnish
Mix the marinade ingredients in a small bowl. Place the meat in a wide bowl or nonreactive pot and pour the marinade over. Cover with plastic wrap or a lid and refrigerate for 2 hours.
Heat the oil or lamb fat in a heavy pot with lid over medium-high heat. Remove the meat from the marinade and add it to the pot (discard the marinade). Add the onion and cook for 10 to 12 minutes, turning the meat occasionally to expose all sides to the hot pot. When the meat is nicely browned, add the carrots and tomatoes, then add the broth, salt, and bay leaves and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a low simmer, partially cover, and cook for 1 hour.
Remove the bay leaves and serve hot, in the cooking pot or in a serving bowl, garnished lavishly with fresh green herbs.
Serves 4 as a main course
The bus creaked to a stop in the center of the village. We were on the border of Qinghai and Gansu, in the majority-Tibetan area formerly known as Amdo. A woman in long traditional Tibetan dress hurried up to the bus and climbed on, carrying a tray of cups of homemade yogurt to sell to the passengers. It was thick and creamy, irresistible. I got down from the bus, yogurt in hand, to have a look around. The spring wind swirled dirt into the air and rattled windows in the low shops that lined the wide bare street. The village was on a ridge in the middle of rolling soft-green grasslands, the horizon bounded by snow-covered rounded mountains.
A narrow track headed straight out across the green. Far in the distance I could see two motorcycles heading toward town, trailing a puff of dust behind them, a modern version of horsemen on the plain. A few minutes later, they rode up the hill onto the main street, two nomad couples in heavy sheepskin coats (jubas), the women, with long braids and with colored sashes belting their coats, riding behind the men.
Nomads in Qinghai and Gansu, as well as in western Tibet, have been making the switch from horses to motorcycles for a while, as soon as they have the money to do so. In the snow, of course, motorcycles are not as flexible as horses, but the rest of the year the nomads prefer them, whatever romantic notions outsiders may have: they are relatively inexpensive (about $600), they can go faster than a horse over a long distance, and they require less daily care.
The day after I saw those nomad motorcyclists, I rode out into the grasslands south of Labrang, in southern Gansu. I was on a sure-footed gray Tibetan pony, sharing the cost of the two amiable Tibetan men who came along as guides with a well-traveled young Tibetan-speaking guy from Maine named Galen. We spent the day riding up into the hills. We saw a fox and its den, yellow Himalayan ducks, and plenty of rolling countryside framed by snow-covered hills. We picnicked on bread and cheese, lounging on fresh green grass by a stream. The ponies grazed nearby. It was a spectacular excursion.
But soon after we started to head home in late afternoon, it began to rain hard, and a strong wind from the north blew the rain straight into our faces (see “Tsampa in a Storm,” page 179). Labrang was about fifteen miles away, three hours or so at a walk or slow trot, which was all our horses could manage after our long day’s ride. There was no magic to it; we just had to put in the time it would take to get back. As we rode, getting colder and colder, several motorcycles passed us, also heading into town. Their riders were cold and wet too, but they could get there much more quickly than we could.
It made me realize just how liberating motorcycles must be for many nomads, not to speak of the intoxication of machinery for the young men. We’ve heard that many nomad women complain that their men do no work and instead spend all their time tinkering with their motorcycles or going for joyrides across the grasslands.
Can’t say I blame them. N
Two Tibetan men talking in the middle of a road in the town of Litang, in western Sichuan.
Beef with Mushrooms and Cellophane Noodles
This dish is called ping sha in Tibetan: ping is the word for cellophane noodles, and sha is meat. We substitute beef for the yak meat that is used in Tibet. Ping sha always includes mushrooms, either fresh or dried, and is served with plain rice. The slippery pale noodles and succulent pieces of meat and mushroom are richly flavored by the ginger-warmed broth.
1 pound oyster or white mushrooms, cut into ½-inch-wide strips (about 5 cups), or 2 cups dried mushrooms (shiitake or porcini, for example)
About 2½ cups water
½ pound cellophane noodles (see Glossary)
3 tablespoons peanut oil or canola oil
3 tablespoons minced ginger
1 large or 2 medium scallions, sliced lengthwise into thin ribbons and then into 1½-inch lengths
¾ pound boneless beef, round steak or tenderloin, thinly sliced and cut into pieces about 1 inch by 2 inches
1 teaspoon salt, or to taste
3 tablespoons soy sauce, or to taste
1 cup light vegetable, beef, or chicken broth or water
If using dried mushrooms, place in a bowl, add hot water to cover, and place a small lid or plate on the mushrooms to keep them submerged. Let soak for 15 minutes. Drain, reserving 1½ cups of the soaking water. Slice the mushrooms into ¼-inch-wide strips, discarding any tough stems, and set aside.
Place the noodles in a wide bowl, pour hot water over to cover, and soak for 10 minutes. Drain and cut into long lengths (about 12 inches). Set aside.
Place a large wok or heavy skillet over high heat. When it is hot, add 2 tablespoons of the oil and lower the heat to medium-high. Toss in the ginger and scallions and stir-fry for about a minute, or until softened. Add the meat and salt and stir-fry for about 2 minutes, until the meat has changed color all over. Turn the meat and flavorings out of the pan and set onto a plate. Rinse the wok out with ½ cup water and add to the reserved mushroom soaking water, if you have it, or pour into a small bowl and add another 1½ cups water; set aside. Dry the wok.
Return the wok to medium-high heat. Add the remaining 1 tablespoon oil, swirl it a little, and add the fresh or dried mushrooms. Stir-fry for several minutes, pressing the mushrooms against the hot pan, until they are starting to soften and give off their liquid. Add the reserved water, the cellophane noodles, and soy sauce and cook for another minute, pressing the noodles against the hot wok. Add the 1 cup broth or water and bring to a boil. Boil hard for 1 minute, then lower the heat to medium and add the reserved meat and flavorings. Stir to incorporate them, taste for salt, and adjust if you wish. Turn out into a wide shallow bowl. Serve hot or warm.
Serves 4 as a main course, 6 as one of several dishes with rice
A small village near Gyantse in central Tibet, in winter. The dzomo (yak-cow crosses) are coming in to be milked.
One step more citified and elegant than Mongolian Hot Pot (page 266), this convivial meal begins with meat and vegetable and ends with soup. Toward the end of the meal, rice noodles are dropped into the hot pot broth to cook, then noodles and broth are ladled out into small soup bowls. (You could also offer quail eggs, which each guest can swirl into his or her bowl of broth; see page 283.) Guests can then top the bowls of broth with a sprinkling of minced ginger, scallion, and coriander leaves, to taste. It’s a calming finish to the meal, and satisfying too.
BROTH
6 cups water
2 tablespoons dried shrimp
4 slices peeled ginger
4 slices peeled carrot
About ½ cup coriander leaves
2 tablespoons minced ginger
2 tablespoons minced scallions (white and tender green parts)
HOT POT
1½ pounds beef tenderloin, chilled and then very thinly sliced into approximately 1-by-2-inch slices
About 1½ cups thinly sliced white or oyster mushrooms
12 leaves (or more) romaine or leaf lettuce, or a mixture, torn in half
2 cups frozen tofu cubes, thawed and drained (optional; see Glossary)
1 package thin rice sticks (dried rice noodles), soaked in warm water for 10 minutes, then drained
4 quail eggs (optional)
CONDIMENTS (serve some or all)
Cucumber-Vinegar Sauce (page 83)
Soy-Vinegar Dipping Sauce (page 151)
¼ cup chopped pickled mustard greens (see Glossary) or Tenzin’s Quick-Pickled Radish Threads (page 25)
Mongolian Roasted Garlic Paste (page 28)
Grasslands Herb Salsa (page 23)
½ cup Guizhou Chile Paste (page 35), Bright Red Chile Paste (page 18), or store-bought chile paste
Place the water in a medium pot and bring to the boil. Add the shrimp and slices of ginger and carrot, reduce the heat, and simmer for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, divide the coriander leaves in half, and put one portion aside. Place small piles of the ¼ cup of the coriander, the minced ginger, and minced scallions on a small tray and put out on the table. Arrange the meat, vegetables, and tofu, if using, on a platter. Set the noodles and optional quail eggs aside. Put the condiments out on the table. For each guest, put out a plate, two pairs of chopsticks (one for cooking and one for eating), two condiment bowls, and a small soup bowl.
Transfer the broth and flavorings to a hot pot and place in the center of the table. Or use the heating arrangement that works best for you (see “Hot Pot at Home and Away,” page 269). Sprinkle on the remaining ¼ cup coriander leaves and bring back to a boil.
Call your guests to the table. Invite them to take several condiments, and also to blend and mix—for example, stirring a little minced ginger into their soy-vinegar sauce. Then suggest they add several mushroom pieces each and some greens to the pot and wait for them to cook and soften before lifting them out and eating them, plain or dipped in a condiment. Then have them try the other ingredients, cooking a small amount each time so they can keep track of it, then lifting it out to their plates before seasoning it and eating. The beef slices should simmer only very briefly in the broth, so make sure your guests remove their slices of beef while the meat is still a little pink. (If the broth runs low, add a cup or more of hot water to it and bring back to a boil.)
Once everyone has eaten his or her fill, add any remaining meat to the broth, bring it to a boil, and skim off any foam. Add the soaked noodles and cook until softened and heated through, about 3 minutes. Use chopsticks to distribute the noodles among the soup bowls, then ladle broth over.
If you have the quail eggs, invite your guests to break an egg into their hot broth and swirl it around, if they wish. Pass around the small tray of coriander leaves, ginger, and scallions so they can add a sprinkling of each, as they please, to their bowls of soup.
Serves 4 as a main course
A Tuvan man on horseback with a small herd of goats, in Hom, a village in the Altai Mountains.
This Lhasa classic, traditionally made with yak meat, can be found in every Tibetan household and in many restaurants too. The Tibetan name is sha-dire (pronounced sha-di-RAY; sha is meat and dire is rice), for the dish is always served over rice. We’ve eaten several versions of it over the years. The recipe here is our distillation of advice from many people, but it is mostly based on insights from time spent with our friend Tenzin (see page 25) in his kitchen in Lhasa.
There are several interesting elements to the cooking method, the most noticeable being the addition of spice (celery seeds) mixed with water to the hot cooking oil. The process feels strange to us, but it’s the way Tenzin does it. (Some ground spice is also added later, with the ginger; sometimes it’s a curry powder imported from Nepal, sometimes it’s just cumin seeds. Here we call for ground cumin and coriander seeds.) Precooking the carrots and potatoes avoids having to cook the stew too long and leaves the meat more tender. We serve the stew over rice, as Lhasa people do.
3 pounds potatoes, well scrubbed
1 pound carrots, peeled
5½ cups water, or as needed
3 tablespoons vegetable oil or peanut oil
1 tablespoon crushed or minced garlic
1 tablespoon coarsely ground celery seeds
2 medium or 3 small scallions smashed and cut into 1-inch lengths
1 pound boneless stewing beef (beef chuck), cut into 1- to 2-inch pieces, or 1¾ pounds bone-in beef shank, cut into 2-inch pieces (you can have the butcher slice the shank)
About 2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons minced ginger
1 tablespoon Cumin-Coriander Powder (recipe follows) or garam masala (see Glossary)
Place the potatoes and carrots in a large pot, add 5 cups of the water, and bring to a boil. Cook until the potatoes are just barely cooked through, then drain, reserving the cooking water. Set the vegetables aside to cool.
In a large heavy pot, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and stir-fry briefly, until fragrant. Stir the celery seeds into the remaining ½ cup water, and then add it to the hot oil: it will make a “whoosh” sound and will spatter, so be careful. Toss in the scallions and stir-fry until softened, about a minute. Add the meat and 1 teaspoon of the salt and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, for about 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, strip off the potato peels and chop the potatoes into approximately l½-inch pieces. Cut the carrots into 1-inch lengths. Set aside.
Add the butter to the meat mixture and stir to blend it in. Add the ginger, the spice powder, the potatoes and carrots, and the reserved vegetable cooking water. Add extra water if necessary to cover the meat completely. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer gently, partially covered, for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are very tender and the broth has thickened with their released starch. Taste for salt and add the remaining 1 teaspoon, or to taste. Serve hot over rice.
Serves 4 to 5 as a main course
You can make this simple Lhasan spice blend as you need it, or else make up a small batch and store it in a well-sealed glass jar, so it’s there when you reach for it.
3 tablespoons cumin seeds
3 tablespoons coriander seeds
Place a medium cast-iron or other heavy skillet over medium-high heat, add the cumin seeds, and stir with a wooden spatula or shake the pan to prevent them from scorching as they heat up. Soon they will be aromatic and starting to change color. Continue to dry-roast for another 15 seconds or so, then remove from the heat and continue to stir for another minute. Transfer to a spice grinder or clean coffee grinder and grind to a powder. Set aside in a bowl to cool.
Place the skillet back over medium-high heat and toast and then grind the coriander seeds. They also need to be dry-roasted until they have changed color, which will take a little longer than the cumin; grinding takes longer too, because coriander seeds have a fairly tough outer husk. Once they are ground, add them to the ground cumin and stir to blend together. Let cool completely before transferring to a clean, dry glass jar with a tight-fitting lid. The mixture will lose intensity when stored, so renew your blend about every 3 to 4 weeks.
Makes a generous ¼ cup
Cooks in Lhasa have cosmopolitan tastes, probably because Lhasa has long been a center for trade with China, Nepal, and India. Spices have traveled into Tibet from all directions, along with people with different culinary preferences and knowledge. The result is that Lhasa cooking, like the cooking of city people in most parts of the world, is different from the cooking of people in the countryside. A wider range of ingredients is used, and flavorings are more diverse too.
We’ve talked elsewhere about the taste for condiments and salsas in Lhasa (see page 24), flavors that seem to have traveled in from the Indian Subcontinent. Another element from the Subcontinent is the use of masala powder in meat dishes as a last-minute addition to enhance flavors. Cooks can buy whole and ground spices in the market, and now packaged garam masala made in India or Nepal is being imported and is finding a place in kitchen cupboards in Lhasa.
Tibetans waiting outside the locked door to the Norbulingka, formerly the summer palace of the Dalai Lamas, in Lhasa.
When we were in Lhasa years ago preparing for a long trip to western Tibet, we bought some yak meat in the market, then cut it into strips, rubbed the strips with salt and spices, and put them out in the sun. The air was so dry that soon we had jerky, strong-tasting and lightweight. Later we were very glad we’d made ourselves a supply—it was a huge treat when we were bicycling in western Tibet.
But, in fact, we’d never known exactly how Tibetans dry their yak meat. It’s something that nomads, herders, and people in remote villages do whenever an animal is butchered. The feet will be simmered in a stew, the intestines will go for sausage casings, and so on. But a yak is a huge beast, and a good portion of it will usually be dried for long storage.
When I asked recently in Lhasa about drying meat, I was given very clear, simple instructions (with no explanation why): Never dry it in the sun, only in the cool shade. Cut the meat into long slices and rinse it with salted water. Put it in a basket, or put a loop of string through a hole in one end of each slice, and hang it in the shade on the north side of the house, preferably in fall or winter. Bring it in at night. It will dry in several days.
Dried yak meat was the original ingredient in most of the recipes for Tibetan dishes in this book that call for beef, though in the cities fresh yak meat is now easily available. The dried meat has a slightly more intense flavor than fresh, and yak meat in general stands up to long simmering better than beef.
Yak meat jerky photographed at a Khampa family house in Lhasa.
Like many of the meat and vegetable dishes now made in Lhasa, this is a fusion dish: the long green chiles that go into it would not have been available in Tibet before the development of intensive greenhouse horticulture in the area. In Litang, in the heart of the Tibetan area of western Sichuan, Jeffrey had another version of this stir-fry. There the cook tossed in some tomato too, which we list as an option here.
This recipe calls for twisted green chiles, which have a medium heat and beautiful color. You can substitute 4 or 5 Hungarian wax chiles (pale green) or banana chiles (pale yellow). Their hotness varies, but usually banana chiles are less hot and Hungarian wax more like the twisted green chiles. Another alternative is green cayenne chiles (use 6), which will make a hotter dish. Tomatoes, either ripe or semiripe, give a little acidity and very attractive color.
If you can buy beef that is already cut and labeled “for stir-frying,” then do so. Otherwise, use boneless sirloin and slice as directed in the recipe.
½ to ⅔ pound beef for stir-frying (see headnote) (or boneless beef sirloin)
5 twisted green chiles (see headnote)
2 tablespoons peanut oil or vegetable oil
½ medium onion, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon minced or crushed ginger
2 medium ripe or semiripe tomatoes, coarsely chopped (optional)
¼ cup water or light beef or chicken broth
½ teaspoon dry-roasted Sichuan peppercorns, coarsely ground
1 teaspoon Cumin-Coriander Powder (page 284)
¾ teaspoon salt, or to taste
If you have beef for stir-frying, rinse it and cut any larger pieces in half, so that all the pieces are no longer than 1½ inches and about ¼ inch thick. If you are starting with sirloin, rinse it, then slice it into ¼-inch-thick slices and cut crosswise into pieces between 1 and 1½ inches long. Set aside.
Cut the stem ends off the chiles. Cut a slit partway down each chile from the stem end and strip out the seeds and membranes. Cut the chiles crosswise into 1-inch lengths. You will have about 2 cups loosely packed. Set aside.
Place a large wok or wide heavy skillet over high heat. When it is hot, add the oil and swirl slightly to coat the bottom of the pan. Add the onion and stir-fry for about 20 seconds, until starting to soften, then toss in the ginger and stir-fry briefly. Add the chiles and, if using, the tomatoes, and stir-fry until all the chiles have been exposed to the hot pan and are starting to soften a little, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the water or broth and bring to a vigorous boil. Cover and boil for 2 minutes, then uncover and boil briefly so most of the liquid evaporates. When it’s almost gone and the peppers are softened, add the meat, Sichuan pepper, spice blend, and salt. Stir-fry for about 1 minute. When all the meat has changed color, taste for salt and adjust if necessary, then turn out into a shallow bowl or serving plate.
Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as part of a rice meal
Most of the four million Kirghiz worldwide live in Kyrgyzstan and in neighboring ex-Soviet republics, as well as in northern Afghanistan, but about 150,000 live in China’s Xinjiang province, in the Pamir Mountains. Like the Kazakhs (see page 157) and Uighurs (page 90), the Kirghiz are a Turkic people, and their language is a part of the Turkic language family.
In China, most Kirghiz live seminomadically. Moving with the seasons, traditionally they live either in low stone houses (especially in winter) or in yurts made of wool felt (especially in the milder months), surrounded by their grazing animals. They keep herds of sheep, goats, camels, horses, donkeys, and yaks, all of whom seem to be able to survive the rough climate and strong winds of the Pamirs. The Kirghiz also occasionally work as traders, bringing loads of firewood and wool from the high mountains to the oasis markets at the edge of the Takla Makan Desert. You’ll see them at the markets, wearing high leather boots and fur-trimmed hats, looking like mountain people compared to the lowland Uighurs.
Kirghiz seasonal dwellings, like those of the Tajiks (see page 343), have a clay tandoor oven in the center and bedding in the form of folded quilts and blankets stacked high against the walls. Tandoor breads are an important part of Kirghiz cooking; the ovens are used for baking flat-breads and to warm the house or yurt.
When riding our bicycles through the Pamir Mountains in the summer of 1986, we came upon several Kirghiz camps. Two or three yurts would be set up together, and outside there would occasionally be a woman sitting at a traditional backstrap loom weaving woolen fabric. Yaks and camels were often tethered or grazing near the yurts, and it never ceased to amaze us, the sight of yaks and camels together. We’d always thought of the two animals as living in such different locations, yaks in high-altitude snow and camels in desert heat. But in the Pamirs they live side by side. The landscape has similar amazing contrasts: At one point high in the mountains we came upon an incredible sand dune almost a thousand feet high, and just behind it, a glacier!
One evening during our trip, just as the sun was setting and we were washing up in our campsite after our meal, two Kirghiz horsemen came riding up. They splashed their way through the nearby stream, then dismounted, hobbled their horses, and left them to graze while they came over to talk to us. We were a little intimidated, for though they were friendly enough, they were also very inquisitive. It was only natural: we were strangers camped in their territory and they wanted to know who we were. They assumed we were from some other part of China, so they asked to see our work papers and travel permit. We showed them our passports but wouldn’t hand them over. We tried to explain that we were from a faraway country, but they didn’t understand. We offered them tea and bread, looked on as they fingered our mountain bikes, our nylon tent, and our fleece jackets, and were quite relieved when they rode off without giving us any trouble.
A young Kirghiz boy named Sok stands outside his house, which lies beneath Mount Kongur, a 25,325-foot peak in the Pamirs. At his mother’s invitation, we camped near the house for a night on our bicycle trip through the Pamirs in 1986.
Just south of where Sok and his family live, we passed by these huge dunes, made of sand that is blown up the valley by the fierce winds of the Pamirs. Behind the mountains lies Tajikistan; camels graze in the foreground.
