Hai Dan

Hai Dan

　　Hai Dan is a distinctive traditional dish from Hengyang, deeply rooted in local customs. It is also an indispensable dish at banquets and New Year’s Eve dinners.

　　As a child, I lived in the city with my parents and only returned to my grandparents’ rural home during the Spring Festival. In my memory, the countryside was flat and unremarkable. But as a food-loving kid, I couldn’t forget how skillfully my second aunt cooked, especially her incredibly delicious Hai Dan.

　　My young and energetic second aunt was full of vigor and always busy in the kitchen by herself—washing, chopping, stir-frying, boiling, stoking the fire—all on her own. I’d sneak into the kitchen and watch her crack about ten duck eggs into a bowl, then whisk them vigorously with chopsticks. She kept whisking until the egg mixture could stretch into long strands when lifted with the chopsticks, then added the right amount of salt and pepper to finish. Earlier, she had already soaked and sliced wood ear mushrooms, shiitake mushrooms, water chestnuts, and fatty pork into fine shreds. Then she heated some vegetable oil in the pan, added the shredded fatty pork first to render out the fat, followed by the wood ears, shiitakes, water chestnuts, and vermicelli. After adding an appropriate amount of salt and stir-frying everything until cooked, she took it out of the pan. Next, she took out a small aluminum basin, brushed it with a layer of oil, poured in one-third of the egg mixture, added the stir-fried “five-shred” mixture, and then poured in the rest of the egg mixture to cover the “five shreds.”

　　She placed this richly layered Hai Dan into a steamer basket set over a wok to steam. Crouching by the stove, she fed the fire just enough to keep it strong but not too fierce. According to her, controlling the heat was key—so the Hai Dan would puff up nicely without forming air pockets. After about seven or eight minutes, the Hai Dan was ready. Once cooled, she removed it from the aluminum basin—it was perfectly round, resembling a cake batter.

　　She cut the Hai Dan into diamond shapes. Half was pan-fried and served with shredded red chili and scallions, resulting in a soft, fluffy texture. The other half was made into a soup, with added slices of pork and jade bamboo shoots (tender white bamboo shoot slices)—the flavor was simply exquisite.

　　In the countryside, Spring Festival meals were almost always heavy with greasy meat dishes, leaving everyone feeling overly full. That’s when this two-in-one Hai Dan dish felt especially refreshing. My second aunt was famous in the village for making Hai Dan, and she had a secret—adding a bit of clear broth to the egg mixture, which made the Hai Dan especially soft and refreshingly delicious.

　　I once curiously asked my grandfather why it was called Hai Dan, wondering if it was an egg fished from the sea. Stroking his long beard, he smiled and explained. The eggs used in Hai Dan came from the local wild ducks that swam along the Shuishang River. Long ago, the dish originally included shredded squid and shrimp—seafood ingredients—hence the name “Hai Dan,” which means “Sea Egg.” Back then, only wealthy landlords could afford it. But clever, less affluent families, unable to buy seafood, innovated boldly by substituting vermicelli, wood ear mushrooms, and water chestnuts for squid and shrimp. Surprisingly, the resulting Hai Dan turned out to be extraordinarily flavorful—just as delicious as the seafood version.

　　More than thirty years have passed. My once-vibrant second aunt now has silver hair, and my grandfather has long since passed away—I can’t even clearly remember his face anymore. But the kind smile he wore as he told me the story of Hai Dan remains vividly etched in my memory.

　　After “Golden Treasures Fill the Bowl” won the honor of being one of Yan City’s New Top Ten Dishes, I learned that someone had even written a poem for this humble dish commonly known as Hai Dan: Golden threads and silver threads, served in a jade bowl, delighting hosts and guests alike, filling the air with joy.

　　Reciting this poem and recalling the lively scenes of those Spring Festival reunions, I think of my grandfather and my once-energetic second aunt.

　　Author: Xiao Lingling Source: Kaifeng Hunan