Collapsed Bean Pancakes

Collapsed Bean Pancakes

　　Collapsed bean pancakes are also called spread bean pancakes or pan-fried bean pancakes. I think the character “塌” (collapsed) could better be replaced with “拓” (spread). Looking it up in a Chinese dictionary, “拓” is a polyphonic character pronounced both as “ta” and “tuo.” In the Jianghan region, there are ~bean pancakes, oily pancakes, ~slippery cakes, and various other types of cakes. It takes the “ta” sound from “rubbing prints” or “rubbing copies,” but derives its meaning from “expanding” or “pioneering” as in “拓tuo展” or “开拓tuo.” A student thinks this makes some sense, but still feels that such usage is quite rare in the inheritance of dialects.

　　 The main ingredient of the bean pancakes we commonly eat is mung beans, with a small amount of red beans mixed in. Nowadays, most of the bean pancakes sold in the market are not authentic; they often contain miscellaneous grains like broken rice or even soybeans and lotus roots... Making “joking” collapsed bean pancakes just doesn’t add up—it’s not profitable. This is what Granny Wang, who often sells bean pancakes on Jiaotong Road, says.

　　 Bean pancakes are delicious, but making them is not simple. First, the ingredients are soaked until swollen, then rinsed to remove the skins, ground into a paste with a millstone, and then cooked into thin pancakes over a low flame in a pot on a wood-fired stove. They are most delicious when eaten fresh. For pancakes kept a few days, you can tear them apart by hand, then pan-fry them with oil and scallions—this is called pan-fried bean pancakes. They can also be shredded, dried, and later cooked like noodles with some greens added—this version is called bean pancake noodles.

　　 In restaurants and hotels, bean pancakes are a rare delicacy. Guests enjoy them while drinking alcohol; the proprietress, bring another plate (a joke/teasing remark/meant to win favor with the proprietress), sometimes even asking for more and more.

　　 Making collapsed bean pancakes in the countryside during winter is considered quite an honorable task for ordinary farming families, because bean pancakes are a rare treat. When I was a child, my family was always in debt each year, and my mother would only make them once a year. My siblings and I could only indulge in this luxury once a year. My mother would soak the mung beans and red beans a few days in advance; at around eight or nine in the morning, she’d ask my third aunt to help. She’d move the millstone from the main hall, set up a basin under the mill frame, and start grinding with the mill poles. While some turned the mill, others stoked the fire, scooped the batter, or made the pancakes—everyone stayed busy until the morning work bell of the production team rang. By then, my mother had already prepared bean pancakes to distribute to relatives and the three neighboring households: seven for this family, ten for that one… never six. My third uncle would even come looking for his share himself. The night before, my grandfather would instruct me: “Hong, tomorrow morning, invite Uncle Su from by the river, Auntie from Jiangjia Village, and Uncle En from Xia Machang Street to come eat bean pancakes. We’ve made a batch of bean pancakes, but by the time we’re done, there’ll only be half a sieveful left for our own family.” As a child, I never understood—why go through all that trouble of grinding and milling all day long, only to have others eat them, only to make them for others? What’s the point?

　　 One person eating them finds them delicious, ten people eating them find them delicious. That’s why in the Mianyang region, there’s the joke: “Your neighbor’s granny making collapsed bean pancakes—you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

　　 Author: Zhang Caifu, December 2011, Urumqi