You’re dead, and you’re not quite where you imagined you’d be – heaven, that is. Wherever you are, this is definitely not what they described in Sunday school. You look around you, and where the benevolent, harp-strumming angels ought to be is something very, very different: a 15 foot tall Asian man.

And he does not look happy.

Palms sweating, you approach his throne.

“Jesus?” you ask, hoping.

“Ai ya!” (哎呀!) the Asian behemoth bellows. “Didn’t you ever go to Dongyue Temple to see my statue?”

“No,” you whimper, wishing you hadn’t chosen to study abroad in Europe.

“Too bad. You have done nothing good and everything evil. Looks like you’ll be spending your next life as…”

He checks his list.

“…a cicada. Goodbye.”

Dongyue Temple (东岳庙, Dōngyuè Miào) – A Brief History 

Heart pounding yet? That’s precisely the desired effect of the Taoist Pantheon.

Presided over by the God of the Mount Tai, the Taoist Pantheon, all 76 departments of it, doesn’t fool around. Much like a real government, the Pantheon preserves peace, order and justice, upholding a system in which good behavior is duly rewarded and bad behavior entails unpleasant and unsightly consequences.

These beliefs were dear to Zhang Liusun (张留孙) and Wu Quanjie (吴全节), who, in the early 14th century began the construction of a Taoist temple in what is now the Chaoyang District of Beijing. At the time, Zhang Liusun was the “Master of Taoism” – a title bestowed upon him by the Yuan emperor – and Wu Quanjie was his greatest disciple. Zhang spearheaded the temple project until his death in 1321. Wu Quanjie saw to it that his master’s work was completed.

The end result: Dongyue Temple. Conveniently located across the street from Wal-Mart (no doubt this was a part of the founder’s original plan), Dongyue Temple is perhaps best thought of as Beijing’s other, other temple. It is an anomaly among Beijing’s more colossal monuments of the past, but its charm is undeniable. Dongyue Temple’s walls enclose a fantasy world with more curious critters than your average Harry Potter novel.

And for 10 yuan, you can spend as much time with them as you want.

While the Yude, Daizongbao and Yuhaung Halls provide the sort of amusement you’re used to at Beijing’s other temples, it’s the 76 Taoist departments that line Dongyue’s perimeter walls that make it truly noteworthy. Populated by beautifully rendered likenesses of Taoist spiritual beings, these rooms will surprise, delight and scare you. Going from department to department and reading the signs can be an almost life-changing experience. It was for me.

And it’s easy to see why.

Five Taoist Departments You Don’t Want to Tangle With

If you thought I meant “uplifting” when I said “life-changing,” you were sorely mistaken. After a day spent wandering through Dongyue Temple, I had no trouble compiling a list of Taoist departments that will unequivocally scare the bejesus out of you.

1.) Department for Implementing 15 Kinds of Violent Death

If you chortled at that oddly specific number, you’d best stifle your laughter. Why? Get on the bad side of the Department for Implementing 15 Kinds of Violent Death (presumably abbreviated D.I.15.K.V.D.) and you could find your head separated from your shoulders. That or death caused by fierce animals or snakes, clubbing, revengeful murder, poisoning or falling into an abyss, among other things. So if you’re thinking about performing an evil deed, just know: that anthropomorphic, horned guy has exactly 15 tricks up his sleeve.

2.) Department for Suppressing Schemes

Feeling crafty, eh? That fellow in the foreground with the uncanny, perpetually raised eyebrow has one thing to say to you:

“Try me.”

The Department for Suppressing Schemes can sniff out an underhanded plot seven layers of Hell away, especially if you’re aim is to “harm loyal subjects.” Even if your dirty deed goes unpunished in the mortal world, the Department for Suppressing Schemes will have their wonky eyebrows trained on you for all of eternity.

3.) Punishment Department

What is the Punishment Department’s specialty? Glad you asked.

It’s punishment.

Like clutching your entrails? Never want to lick an ice cream cone again? The Punishment Department can help. Just steal candy from a baby, refrain from helping the elderly cross the street and cut in line at the subway a couple times. Before long, you’ll learn what it means to “pay back evil with evil.” At least the punishments are supposedly “unbiased, just and accurate.” Good to hear that knife-wielding, Darth Maul look-alike has a clear head.

4.) Department of Instant Rewards and Retribution

Yes, the Department for Instant Rewards and Retribution isn’t all bad. Those who live thoughtful and considerate lives probably leave the mortal world with a fairly good impression of this department.

How wrong they are.

Slip up on your path to righteousness just one time, and you will be instantly violated by a ruthless agent of the Department for Instant Rewards and Retribution. There’s no time to reconsider your foul deeds or endeavor to right past wrongs. There’s only time recoil in horror as the minion pounces on you, guffawing maniacally, while stunned onlookers stand with mouths agape. What was that about rewards?

5.) Department for Reducing Longevity

You hear that clock ticking? It’s not counting down the remaining time in your workday.

It’s counting down to your death.

Plugging your ears won’t help. At the Department for Reducing Longevity, your days are numbered, and they’re counting. People say a cigarette takes seven minutes off of your life.

Big deal.

The Department for Reducing Longevity can beat that by 299 days, 23 hours and 53 minutes, all in the blink of an eye. Too many “grave faults” and you’ll wish you had stuck with cigarettes. Even more disturbingly: it’s the smirking goofball with the white fan who doles out the punishments.

What Taoist Departments are on your “Not to Tangle With” list? Did I leave anything out? Which department do you most want to avoid? Have you been to Dongyue Temple to see the Taoist statues?

Illustration courtesy of Sarah Rapp

Visit Dongyue Temple at 141 Chaowai Dajie, Chaoyang District, Beijing (东岳庙 朝阳门外大街141号). It’s located about 500 meters east of the Chaoyangmen subway station.

The same, of course, is true for foreigners speaking English—as evidenced by a video that recently went viral on Sina Weibo featuring a young guy from Northeast China imitating the accents of various nationalities speaking English. This includes: Japanese, South Korean, Indian, British, French, Italian, American, Russian and Chinese. Even “Weibo Queen” Yao Chen (the Chinese actress who has over 17 million fans on Sina Weibo), forwarded the video, commenting, “The guy is so talented! The introduction he wrote for each country is also excellent!”

Here’s the video:

This got us thinking—what about how different accents sound in Chinese? Sadly, our searches didn’t yield anything quite as funny as the above video, but we did find this clip of American-born, Taiwan-based celeb Lehom Wang (王力宏) imitating different groups speaking Chinese:

If anyone knows of any other videos featuring different Chinese accents, let us know about it!

And since we’re also an educational enterprise, here’s an older viral video on how to speak Chinese properly:

At said Malan shop (a fast-food chain where noodles are pulled fresh for each bowl), the lunch lines reach almost to the door by 12.15. So in recent weeks, I’ve taken to delaying lunch-time till after 1 p.m., in the hope of avoiding the crowds. On this day, however, my efforts were to no avail, and so after paying for my noodles I got in line and zoned out to the sound of the noodle chef pounding dough against the table.

When I was a couple people away from the window, the chef beckoned for the next few orders. It was then that a middle-aged man with thinning hair suddenly materialized at the wrong side of the window. “Hey, what about me?” he yelled indignantly. The noodle chef, a muscular, no-nonsense guy in a white smock, was unmoved. “You came from the back of the line,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous!” the man protested. “I was here all along!”

The guy in front of me got in on the action. “HE’S LYING!” he shouted. “I saw him cut the line.”

Spurred by their fellow line-waiter’s courage, a few other people started to pipe up. “Yeah!” they called out, shaking their fists.

The noodle chef looked at the line-butter. Chastened, but still grumbling, he lowered his head and shuffled to the back of the line. Justice had been done.

It’s a scene that, in my opinion, happens far too rarely in China. At least several times a week, I am witness to what can only be described as impudent and egregious displays of line-butting, known in Chinese as cha dui (插队), the opposite, of course, of the much more civilized pai dui (排队).

That’s not to say China is unaware of its problem with lining-up. In the year running up to the 2008 Beijing Olympics, the government—in an effort to make the city more “civilized,” or wenming (文明)—instituted “Queuing Day.” The day, which fell on the 11th of every month (since the two numerals are standing in a row, was dedicated to educating Beijingers on how to wait in a proper line. Though the campaign has largely fallen by the wayside, bus stops around the capital are still stamped with biaoyu (标语, slogans) about the importance of waiting in line. Among the most common is:

我排队， 我文明。我礼让，我快乐。
Wǒ páiduì, wǒ wénmíng, wǒ lǐràng, wǒ kuàilè.
I wait in line and am cultured. I display courtesy and am happy.

Despite all efforts, line-butting remains a reality in most places in China. According to our food editor Juling, this is not just a function of Beijing’s overcrowding. “It’s even worse in smaller cities and even the countryside,” she says, referencing her own small town in Hubei. “There’s more education about it in Beijing. And it’s better in Beijing now than it was before the Olympics.”

Yet it remains a pet peeve of many foreigners who come from countries where standing in line is the ultimate rule of law.

“I’ve accepted all the social norms of living in China,” writes one commenter on Chinese-forums.com. “Yet, the one thing that really grinds my gears is the fact that people will cut you in line. Where there is a line, there is someone cutting.”

While there’s lots of complaining to be found online, there’s also some reflection. Another commenter in the same thread writes:

“Because there are so many people sharing the limited resources and social security, it is a very competitive society and people must fight for themselves to get what they want. If there is only one bus every hour to take 100 people home, but there are 250 people who cannot afford more expensive modes of transport and must take the bus, it is a bit hard to expect them to line up and wait for one or two hours for later buses.”

But understanding a phenomenon and reacting to it are two different matters. Which is why it’s important that you know all the tricks involved in line-butting and the best ways to respond.

The Tricks

There are three common tricks that line-butters use to cut the line:

1. The “I’m With Them” Trick: This basically involves waiting until a group of people buys tickets for something, then running up to the window after they’ve started walking away and saying you’re with them. Most people in line, and the ticket-taker, know this is probably untrue, but it has enough plausibility to make them go along with it. After all, no one wants to be the reason why some guy misses the train to go on a weekend trip with his family.

2. The Five-Minute Friend Trick: This is even more insidious and ballsy. The line-butter-to-be finds his mark (likely someone who appears too demure to call him or her out) and strikes up a conversation with the mark, either by asking a question or making a bit of small talk. After the question is answered and the conversation ends, the line-butter continues standing right behind you, having successfully given the impression to the people behind that they know you.

3. The “Save My Relationship!” Trick: This rarely used approach requires a partner. Two people who feasibly look as though they could be a couple go to the front of the line and start arguing loudly. The girl begins to cry, saying that they should’ve bought tickets earlier, and threatening to break up with the male half of the couple. The guy then turns to a sympathetic looking line-stander near the front and says, “Can you please help me out?” (Ok, so this only happened once in a movie, but who knows, you might run into it.)

How to Deal

Just because you’re a clueless foreigner doesn’t mean you have to take this guff! Here are the best responses to line-jumpers, depending on your mood and the egregiousness of his or her offense:

1. The Polite Prod:

请排队,好吗？
Qǐng páiduì hǎo ma?
Please line up, ok?

2. The Annoyed Snap:
不要插队!
Bùyào chāduì!
Don’t butt!

3. The Rude Outburst:
你丫怎么插队啊？！
Nǐ yā zěnme chāduì a?
What the hell are you doing butting?

Or

后面去！
Hòumiàn qù!
Get to the back!

The Exceptions

I’ll admit that our other editor, Beijing, (who is much nicer than any of the rest of us) said that she’ll make allowances for older folks or people who allow just one friend to jump in next to them.

“If it’s a group I’ll get angry, but if it’s just one person, then it’s ok because I’ve done the same,” she says. “But if the group is too big I’ll definitely say, ‘Go to the back!’”

Pao pao qing is a tough, vigorous plant that comes into season during the winter, and is especially tasty just after a frost or snowfall. Its palm-sized leaves are thick and blackish-green, with a puffy texture that gives the plant its name. But despite its tough appearance, pao pao qing is tender when cooked, and boasts a light, fresh, even slightly sweet taste.

During our Chinese New Year’s Eve feast, a plate of stir-fried pao pao qing was always an indispensible dish. I still remember when my grandmother was alive, she used to say to us, “Eat some qingcai, kids! Then you will be blessed with good health all year long!”

On that night, even my family’s buffalo would get in on the action, with a bowl of rice and pao pao qing. As she was handing the bowl to him, my grandmother would say a popular local verse to the buffalso: “Although the buffalo has been beaten and scolded by his owner many times, it’s looking forward to enjoying a bowl of rice on the Chinese New Year’s Eve” (打一千骂一万，望到腊月三十吃碗饭 Dǎ yīqiān mà yī wàn, wàng dào làyuè sānshí chī wǎn fàn). When I was a child, every family in my town kept buffalos to help them plow the fields, so by feeding them pao pao qing, my grandmother told me, we were hoping to improve our own fortune for the coming year—after all, a strong buffalo means a bigger harvest!

Though my grandmother’s generation had almost no formal education (most were illiterate), they figured out from observation that pao pao qing was a nutritional powerhouse—a supposition that’s been born out by modern scientific research. Pao pao qing is rich in proteins, fats, carbohydrates, vitamins, minerals and more.

As local populations became more mobile in the 90s, pao pao qing’s popularity began to spread beyond my hometown. Some even brought seeds of the plant back home to grown their own, but found that the plants had a lighter color, thinner leaves and no bubbles at all. In terms of both appearance and texture, this foreign-grown pao pao qing was a far cry from its Suizhou ancestors. It’s said that the plant selected its own ideal environment, and only Suizhou’s dry and cold winters were suitable for its growth.

In my hometown, we have several low-fuss ways of cooking pao pao qing. Some of the most common are stir-frying it in hot oil with ginger until soft or throwing it into a hotpot. Some also use the vegetable to make chunjuan (春卷, spring roll), which—in contrast to the American version—features a sheet fried bean curd rolled up and stuffed with pao pao qing, minced lotus root, pork, salt, ginger and spring onions.

]]> http://www.theworldofchinese.com/2012/02/hubeis-homegrown-superfood/feed/ 0 http://www.theworldofchinese.com/2012/02/chinese-slang-temper-tantrum-101/ http://www.theworldofchinese.com/2012/02/chinese-slang-temper-tantrum-101/#comments Thu, 16 Feb 2012 10:19:29 +0000 Kyle David http://www.theworldofchinese.com/?p=9245 Annoying!” The girl shakes her head violently as her boyfriend tries to hug her. “Don’t be like this,” he pleads. “Annoying jerk! Annoying jerk!” The couple gets barely a look from passersby. A little tantrum on the street is a common sight in China; it’s a staple of any healthy relationship.

Flash to a couple’s bedroom. “I’m sooo hungry,” the wife giggles menacingly. The husband’s pupils widen, following her as she walks to the bed and unfolds the blankets. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” she continues. “I didn’t eat enough because I saw you liked it so much. Some snacks from downstairs would be nice!”

Chinese women are masters of the temper tantrum art known as sajiao (撒娇). The term is difficult to translate, but it refers to the above types of whining. Some associate it with the word taoyan (讨厌, annoying), hollered to men by their drama queens. Sajiaoing is a kind of game—when done well it can win great affection from male suitors; when done poorly it strikes fear in their hearts.

They fear it because it works—it’s a form of manipulation. The hungry wife above was sajiaoing to get her husband to buy her food. Many use the technique to judge their man’s commitment. As one girl says, “If my boyfriend won’t do something I really want him to do, I sajiao. Sometimes, even if I don’t really want something, I’ll whine a bit. I want to see that he loves me and is responding to my needs.”

Other women, like Xiao Yu, a graduate student, feel that too much sajiaoing can hurt a relationship. “I sajiaoed too much with my first boyfriend,” she says. “In the beginning, he responded well. But after while he broke off the relationship. I really was overdoing it.”

While Xiao Yu scared her man off, sajiaoing just the right amount can be the way to a man’s heart. “If a woman sajiaos well, she is sexy,” says one man. “What I mean by well is that you can’t even tell she is sajiaoing until it’s too late, until you’ve been fooled by your own emotions.”  Sajiaoing is a thrilling way to flirt, a battle of wills that calls for wit and subtlety.

A wealth of techniques are used to sajiao, so whether you’re a temptress-in-training, or a man trying to combat its evils, read on to gain a bit of savvy.

The Falling Tone Ma

In this approach, the lady remains steadfast in her (usually unreasonable) demands, often tagging a drawn-out whiny ma (嘛) to the end of her sentences. (Pronounced with a falling tone similar to a child whining, “Whyyy?”)

This skirt is nice isn’t it? Come on, say it’s nice!
Zhè tiáo qúnzi zhēn hǎokàn, shì bùshì? Nǐ kuài shuō hǎokàn, hǎokàn ma!
这条裙子真好看，是不是？你快说好看，好看嘛！

Ok ok, it’s nice. Just a little expensive.
Hǎo ba, hǎokàn. Jiùshì yǒudiǎn er guì.
好吧，好看。就是有点儿贵。

You think it’s nice right? So buy it, buy it!
Nǐ yě juéde hǎokàn, duì bùduì? Nà mǎi ma, mǎi ma, mǎi ma!
你也觉得好看, 对不对？那买嘛，买嘛，买嘛！

Silver-Coated Bullets

This tack consists of putting the other person on a pedestal and making yourself look pathetic. We call this the “silver-coated bullet” (糖衣炮弹 tángyīpàodàn).

Ohh, I’m so useless!
Āi, wǒ zhēn méi yòng!
哎，我真没用！

What’s wrong honey?
Zěnmele, qīn’ài de?
怎么了，亲爱的？

I just finished cleaning and my arm hurts. If only I was strong like you…
Wǒ cái gānggāng dǎsǎo wán fángjiān, gēbo jiù suānle, wǒ yàoshi xiàng nǐ yīyàng qiángzhuàng jiù hǎole ⋯⋯
我才刚刚打扫完房间，胳膊就酸了，我要是像你一样强壮就好了⋯⋯

Oh honey, I’ll clean the room.
Qīn’ài de, wǒ lái dǎsǎo fángjiān ba.
亲爱的，我来打扫房间吧。

Temper Tantrum Galore

A good old-fashioned temper tantrum, known as shuagexingzi (耍个性子), never fails either.

Can you go get me some noodles?
Nǐ qù gěi wǒ mǎi wǎn miàn, hǎo ma?
你去给我买碗面，好吗？

The noodle shop is far and it’s late.
Mài miàn de tài yuǎnle, zàishuō yǐjīng hěn wǎnle.
卖面的太远了，再说已经很晚了。

Fine! I knew it, you’d rather have me starve wouldn’t you!?
Nà hǎo ba! Wǒ zhīdàole, nǐ xiǎng ràng wǒ è sǐ!
那好吧！我知道了，你想让我饿死!

Big bowl or small…
Nǐ yào dà wǎn háishì xiǎo wǎn
你要大碗还是小碗⋯⋯

Deflect with Sarcasm

One of the best ways to defeat a sajiao-ess is blatant sarcasm (讽刺 fèngcìf).

My teacher is so unfair! He assigned homework right before the holiday.
Wǒmen lǎoshī tài guòfènle! Fàngjià qián hái bùzhì zuòyè.
我们老师太过分了！放假前还布置作业。

What a shame, the little baby won’t be able to sleep in.
Tài kěliánle, xiǎo bǎobǎo méi fǎ shuì gè xiǎo lǎn jiào le.
太可怜了，小宝宝没法睡个小懒觉了。

Annoying jerk!
Tǎoyàn!
讨厌！

Just Shut Up!

Naturally, employees would never sajiao to their bosses; the game is only played by people who are very comfortable with each other, so it’s okay to be direct and tell them to shut up.

This is the last time. I promise I won’t make you go to my hometown again.
Zhè shì zuìhòu yīcìle, wǒ zài yě bù ràng nǐ qù wǒ lǎojiāle.
这是最后一次了，我再也不让你去我老家了。

Give it up, I’m not going.
Bié shuōle, wǒ jiù bù qù.
别说了，我就不去。

You’re going to make me spend 36 hours alone a train?!
Nǐ yào ràng wǒ yīgè rén zuò 36 gè xiǎoshí de huǒchē? !
你要让我一个人坐36个小时的火车？！

Forget it, I’m not going!
Suànle ba, wǒ bù qù!
算了吧，我不去！

Sajiao is a game of affection. Take it with a grain of salt and try not to let it turn you off. And don’t be afraid to use it to turn someone on. Remember be subtle, cunning and keep your wits about you.

“Kaleidscope” is a section of The World of Chinese magazine dedicated to capturing the lesser-known China, and now it’s coming to the web. Check back every week for new photo galleries and visit our contact page for inquiries about submissions.

Can’t get enough of The World of Chinese online? In our magazine section, you’ll find a sneak preview of our TV issue, on shelves now. We have everything you need to know about visiting the winter wonderland of Changchun, a city known for producing China’s Red films in the 1950s and 60s, and if you catch a bug when hitting the slopes, be sure to read about this witch doctor from Guizhou who just might have the cure. And if you thought you learned all you could about Sun Wukong in Chinese culture class, think again—check out our exclusive interview with the The Monkey King himself. Don’t know where to buy the magazine? You can find a list of all our locations here, and be sure to visit our store!

Despite my griping, restaurants all over China’s major cities will be smacking their lips in anticipation of netting happy couples prepared to pay whatever it takes to impress their loved ones. In the words of one restaurateur, who asked not to be named for reasons which will shortly become obvious, Valentine’s Day allows all restaurants to unite in their complicity to rip their customers off.

It seems unfortunate to me that China has fallen victim to the rampant commercialism and oppressing obligation to be romantic that Valentine’s Day inspires. This is especially true as China has its very own day of romance, traditionally celebrated on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month. Qixi Festival (七夕节), literally “The Night of Sevens”, appears to be dying a slow death at the hands of the commercial juggernaut that accompanies Valentine’s Day. What’s more, the story behind the Chinese festival is infinitely more romantic than the jumble of myths and half-truths that form the background to Valentine’s Day’s romantic connotations (no one appears able to accurately pin down the tradition’s historical background).

The Chinese legend tells of a young farm boy, the Herd-boy (牛郎 niúláng), who falls in love with a beautiful maiden, the Weaving-girl (织女 zhīnǚ), who happens to be the daughter of a powerful goddess. Naturally, the two conceal their love from the powers that be in heaven, and elope to make merry and have babies. However, unions between goddesses and mortals were strictly forbidden, so the goddess summoned her daughter back to heaven. The Herd-boy wasn’t having any of this, and set off in search of his beloved, only to have the goddess discover his intentions and tear a river through the sky, now known as the Milky Way, to separate the two lovers forever. However, once a year, all the world’s magpies take pity on the lovers, ascend to heaven and form a bridge over which the two can meet for one night only.

How’s that for romance? The festival’s traditions are still alive and kicking in Taiwan, where men occasionally abide by a somewhat expensive tradition of buying their loved one assorted numbers of roses. One red rose represents the singularity of love, 11 connotes the slightly dubious virtue of being “a favorite”, 99 means “forever” and 108 roses is effectively a marriage proposal. I asked one former Chinese colleague why his countrymen had allowed this inspiring tradition to lapse. His reply: “外来的和尚好念经,” which roughly translates as “stuff from outside is better.” However, some netizens appear to have got the right idea (in my view, anyway). Recent posts on Weibo poke fun at Valentine Day’s supposed obligations. A common exchange doing the rounds goes something like this:

Q: 你打算怎么过情人节？How will you celebrate Valentine’s Day?

A: 略“过”. This literally means “I’ll celebrate it simply”, but really carries the meaning “to skip,” a mocking reply made by singles with no one to celebrate with. If only more couples would do the same thing today, and at least wait until later in the year to get their romance on.

Wuchang fish, which typically range between one and two feet, are known for being tender, fat and aromatic. Known in English as a “bream,” the fish got its name over 2000 years ago during the Three Kingdoms Period, when the Hubei city of Ezhou (鄂州市) was still called Wuchang (武昌).

In the southwest of this city lies a freshwater lake called Liangzi Hu (梁子湖), which is rich in vegetation as well as fish. Spanning more than 600,000 mu (亩, or 100 sq. miles), the lake drains into the Yangtze River at a point called Fankou (樊口). Here, the water flows in swirling whirlpool currents—and Wuchang fish roam.

These days, the fish are available all over China, thanks in part to a bit of publicity provided by Mao Zedong in one of his poems: “I have just drunk the waters of Changsha / And come to eat Wuchang Fish” (才饮长沙水，又食武昌鱼 Cái yǐn zhǎngshā shuǐ, yòu shí wǔchāng yú). This alone greatly helped build Wuchang fish’s fame in China.

Steamed Wuchang fish (清蒸武昌鱼, qīngzhēng wǔchāng yú) is one of Hubei’s most famous dishes, but I personally prefer red braised Wuchang fish (红烧武昌鱼, Hóngshāo wǔchāng yú), which provides a richer, more intense flavor.

Red-Braised Wuchang Fish

Ingredients:

• 1 Wuchang fish (about 600 grams), dressed and scored on both sides

• 1 teaspoon salt (for marinating)

• 1 tablespoon cooking oil

• 1 inch piece of ginger, julienned

• 3 cloves of garlic, crushed

• 1 inch scallion, julienned

• 1 tablespoon of dark soy sauce

• 1 teaspoon of vinegar

• 1 teaspoon rock or granulated sugar

• 3 dried chaotian jiao (朝天椒, “face-to-heaven” chilies), torn in half

• 1 star anise

• Salt to taste

Directions:

1. Spread 1 teaspoon salt over the outside of the fish and inside the abdomen evenly. Leave to marinate for about one hour.
2. Mix together ginger, garlic, scallions, dark soy sauce, vinegar, rock sugar, chilies and star anise in a small bowl.
3. Heat the wok until completely dry. Rub the wok’s bottom with ginger so the fish will not stick to the wok, then add oil to the wok.
4. When the oil is hot, add the fish and fry over a low flame until golden (about 2-3 minutes per side).
5. Transfer the fish to a plate.
6. Pour the mixture in step 2 into the wok and cook, stirring, for about 2 minutes.
7. Return the fish to the wok. Add 2-3 cups of water and simmer the fish until it absorbs most of the soup.
8. Add salt to taste, and serve with rice.

And yet when Pan took the stage for the first time on “China’s Got Talent”  (中国达人秀 Zhōngguó dárén xiù), a popular TV talent competition, judges learned that you can’t judge a book by its cover.

“I’m not sure if my voice can move the audience, but I will try to give a good performance and sing well,” Pan says in a demure voice. But as soon as she launches into her ballad, Pan’s voice transforms into a rich baritone that shakes the auditorium to their feet. As the applause from Pan’s standing ovation begins to fade, one of the male judges shakes his head in amazement: “You were born with a voice that would even make men jealous!” And judges swoon, apparently: Pan won 2012’s competition.

Before she gained national stardom, Pan, who hails from rural Shandong, worked as a waitress at a Beijing hotpot restaurant. For years, her talent remained hidden to her, until one night when she went out to sing karaoke with her coworkers—and a beautiful, deep voice rumbled out of her.

Pan says her initial goal in participating in the show was to improve the living conditions of her family and support her younger brother in his dream of pursuing athletics. At the final contest, however, Taiwanese judge Annie Yi encouraged Pan to stick to her love of music for another reason: “You always mention your younger brother. But I hope you can sing for yourself from now on.”

Below are the lyrics of a song Pan sang in her debut performance on the talent show. It’s the theme song of the historical TV drama “The Reign of Emperor Kangxi” (《康熙王朝》).

《向天再借五百年》
“Xiàng Tiān Zài Jiè Wǔbǎinián”
“Asking the Heavens for Another 500 Years”

沿着江山起起伏伏温柔的曲线
Yánzhe jiāngshān qǐqǐfúfú wēnróu de qūxiàn
Along the tender curve of meandering mountains,

放马爱的中原爱的北国和江南
Fàng mǎ ài de zhōngyuán ài de Běiguó hé Jiāngnán
I ride a horse on my beloved Central Plains, beloved north China and southland.

面对冰刀雪剑风雨多情的陪伴
Miànduì bīngdāo xuějiàn fēngyǔ duōqíng de péibàn
With the piercing snow and ice, and the affectionate company of wind and rains,

珍惜苍天赐给我的金色的华年
Zhēnxī cāngtiān cìgěi wǒ de jīnsè de huánián
I cherish the golden years the heavens bestow on me.

做人一地肝胆
Zuòrén yí dì gāndǎn
Be a courageous person

做人何惧艰险
Zuòrén hé jù jiānxiǎn
Who fears no difficulties or dangers.

豪情不变年复一年
Háoqíng bú biàn niánfùyìnián
My ambition remains strong year after year.

做人有苦有甜
Zuòrén yǒu kǔ yǒu tián
Life is bittersweet,

善恶分开两边
Shàn’è fēnkāi liǎngbiān
Right is judged from wrong.

都为梦中的明天
Dōu wèi mèng zhōng de míngtiān
We are all striving for the future of our dreams.

看铁蹄铮铮
Kàn tiětí zhēngzhēng
The clanking iron hooves,

踏遍万里河山
Tàbiàn wànlǐ héshān
Cover boundless landscapes

我站在风口浪尖紧握住日月旋转
Wǒ zhànzài fēngkǒulàngjiān jǐnwò zhù rìyuè xuánzhuǎn
Standing on top of the tides, I grip the revolving sun and the moon

愿烟火人间
Yuàn yānhuǒ rénjiān
Wishing the human world

安得太平美满
Ān dé tàipíng měimǎn
Could see peacefulness and happiness.

我真的还想再活五百年
Wǒ zhēn de hái xiǎng zài huó wǔbǎinián
I wish I could live another five hundred years.

Chives are an old classic in the world of Chinese produce, with a cultivation history that reaches back more than 3000 years. The earliest record of chives’ use as a kind of herbal medicine dates back to the Spring and Autumn and the Warring States Periods (770 BC-221 BC).

Though chives are available starting in autumn, they’re best in the spring. In addition to their yangqi power punch, chives are also great for a digestive tract that’s grown sluggish over winter. Essential oils help stimulate appetite, while high levels of fiber clean out your guts, helping to prevent constipation and even guard against intestinal cancer—hence their nickname in Chinese xichangcao (洗肠草, a grass that can clean your intestines). Meanwhile, chives’ pungent fragrance is great for dredging out your liver, improving circulation and dissipating stasis, leading to their second nickname ganzhicai (肝之菜), which literally means “liver vegetable.”

Perhaps most importantly, chives are packed with immunity-boosting vitamins, as well sulfides that can help suppress and kill bacteria—crucial during the spring, when temperature changes make you vulnerable to sickness,

While there are tons of ways to cook with chives, one of the most common (and the easiest) to fry them up with some eggs. So on your way home, pick up some eggs and jiucai, and start building up that yangqi!

Chives Omelette (韭菜煎鸡蛋)

Ingredients:

• 250 grams chives, finely chopped

• 4 eggs, beaten

• Salt to taste

• A dash of ground white pepper (optional)

• 1.5 tablespoons of vegetable cooking oil

Directions:

1. Mix the chives, eggs, salt and ground white pepper evenly in a big bowl.
2. Heat the oil in a wok or frying pan. Pour the mixture into the pan and to form a thin layer at the bottom.
3. Cook both sides of the omelette on low until golden.