Ningbo Stinky Trio

Ningbo Stinky Trio

　　Ningbo is famous for its "Three Stinky Delicacies," namely stinky winter melon, stinky tofu, and stinky amaranth. As the name suggests, when these three items are combined, they form the renowned Ningbo Stinky Trio.

　　 The stinky vegetable juice is used to marinate tofu, mustard greens, and amaranth stems, then topped with freshly pressed rapeseed oil. Once steamed and taken out of the pot, the tofu puffs up like freshly steamed buns—soft, fluffy, and glutinous, while the mustard greens remain a vibrant green, savory yet not greasy. The amaranth stems [“aman” (莟), a Ningbo dialect term coined by the author, as no exact equivalent exists] are, in Ningbo, along with mud snails, humorously referred to as “rice-knockers” [“榔鈊” (láng xīn), a Ningbo dialect term meaning “hammer”]. This is what makes up the Ningbo Three Stinky Delicacies.

　　 The Ningbo Three Stinky Delicacies originally started as humble fare for the poorer folk, typically featuring just one or two of the “stinky” items. Whole amaranth stems, washed after autumn harvest, were commonly salted and preserved—most rural households kept a barrel of them. The ratio of salt to water relied entirely on experience; some batches turned out overly sour and tough, while others were tender and palatable. Perhaps it was a daughter-in-law who couldn’t sell her leafy greens and, unwilling to throw them away, removed the yellow leaves and tossed them into the pickling barrel. Unexpectedly, once steamed, the mustard greens turned a glossy green with a uniquely rich flavor. It wasn’t until much later that they formally made their way onto banquet tables and were proudly dubbed the “Ningbo Three Stinky Delicacies.”

　　 The key to pickling the “Three Stinky Delicacies” lies first in making a good jar of stinky brine. As a child, I remember my mother cleaning and drying a jar before starting, then asking a neighbor for a small bowl of stinky brine to use as a starter. She would then add leftover bamboo shoot soup, edamame pods, or similar ingredients, seal the jar tightly with plastic wrap, and let it ferment for a few days—after which the brine was ready. If there was no ready-made stinky brine to start the process, the method became a bit more complicated. Based on my own zero-experience method, I’d mix autumn-pickled vegetables and brine into the jar to accelerate decomposition and enhance the stink—a saying goes, “Rot breeds richness, stink births fragrance.” Alternatively, I’d pick a few amaranth plants from the family plot, remove the leaves, wash and cut the stems, soak them in water overnight until a layer of white foam formed on the surface. Then I’d take out the amaranth stems, drain them, and place them in the jar with a handful of salt and some clean vegetable broth. The key to making good stinky brine is airtight sealing—otherwise, that pungent smell would attract swarms of flies looking to breed. Well-made stinky brine should be clear, with a strange fragrance underlying the stench, and can be preserved for several years if stored properly.