Pingjiang Fire-Dried Fish

Pingjiang Fire-Dried Fish

　　　Pingjiang is a land of fish and rice. Fire-dried fish are made from small, tender, and plump fish that grow in mountain streams, rivers, ponds, and irrigation ditches. These fish are slow-roasted over a low flame. They can be either deep-fried or used in soups. When deep-fried with ginger, garlic, and chili, they become crispy and delicious. When cooked in soup with ginger, chili, and a bit of pickled vegetables, the flavor is even better, making one’s appetite surge.

　　As the saying goes, “Fish taste best when they’re jumping.” Now, nutrition experts add: “Fish taste best when they’re small.” Small fish are more nutritious than large ones. No wonder the Pingjiang fire-dried fish produced in my hometown has always been so popular. As the name suggests, fire-dried fish are fish processed by slow roasting over a gentle flame. Unlike stiff dried fish or salted preserved fish, these are half-dry and half-moist, yellow on the outside and fresh inside. This gives them the freshness of live fish, the crispness of dried fish, and the flavor of salted fish. Though Pingjiang fire-dried fish are only as thick and long as a pinky finger, preparing them is quite a laborious process.

　　First, the fish used for fire-drying are very particular. They must be small, tender wild fish from rivers, ponds, and reservoirs—varieties that currently cannot be artificially bred or raised. My hometown, Pingjiang County, is surrounded by high mountains and long rivers, with streams crisscrossing and ponds densely scattered. Whether in big rivers or small streams, shallow ponds or deep reservoirs, there are endless numbers of these tender fish swimming freely in the crystal-clear shallow waters. Just as a place shapes its people, so too does it shape its fish. From the four directions and eight hillsides, the tender fish vary in mouth shape, scale color, and form, and their local nicknames differ accordingly. Some are called “sand-touchers,” others “stuck-brains,” some “hairy-tenders,” and others “red-whiskers.” But they all share common traits of tender fish: about an inch long, as thick as a fingertip, meaty with few bones, non-bitter innards, never growing too large, and never running out. In the same mountain pond or stretch of flowing water, people fish every day, yet no one has ever caught dozens or hundreds of pounds of tender fish in one go, nor has anyone ever come back empty-handed after casting a net. Strolling through the vegetable markets in towns, you’ll always see people carrying rectangular bamboo baskets selling fire-dried fish. The fish must be spread out thinly to stay fresh. In my childhood, farmers selling fire-dried fish in the county town would lay them out on lotus leaves, melon leaves, or scrap paper—each piece about the size of a notebook page, sold for a dime or two. Nowadays, you’d have to pay three or five yuan for an ounce.

　　These tender fish are actually very easy to catch. You can use nets, fish traps, set lines, or scoop nets. To me, among the many fishing methods, the most interesting is “trapping fish.” As a child visiting my grandmother in the countryside, “trapping fish” brought me endless joy. Take a mosquito net as big as a square table, bind its four corners with two crossed bamboo sticks, attach a long rope, and you’ve made a square fish trap. Scatter some white rice and bran cakes inside as bait, place a stone as a weight, and lower it into the pond with a bamboo pole. Before long, the tender fish, attracted by the white, fragrant bait, will swarm in to feed—unaware they’ve fallen into our trap. Every so often, we’d lift the trap steadily with the bamboo pole, and as it breaks the surface, water droplets dripping from it would reveal several lively, wriggling tender fish. On lucky days, we might even trap a few-inch-long crucian carp or “swimming biters”! Nowadays, some people prefer using poison or electric currents to catch fish. This extermination-style overfishing has made the once-ubiquitous tender fish increasingly scarce.

　　Tender fish don’t need to be gutted before being roasted into fire-dried fish. Though they do have tiny, bitter bile sacs inside, the mountain water is so clean and unpolluted that there’s absolutely no bitterness when eaten. Roasting fire-dried fish is a meticulous task. Clean a wide iron pan, heat it over a wood fire, lightly coat it with tea oil, then pour in the live tender fish and spread them out evenly. With the pan and oil hot, the fish will roll a few times, naturally coating themselves in oil—this prevents sticking. The embers in the stove glow red, steam rises from the fish-filled pan, and gradually the steam dissipates, leaving only the aroma of fish filling the air. Every so often, you stir the embers and gently flip the fish. Like a master potter controlling the kiln’s heat with precision, the perfectly roasted fire-dried fish emerge intact, not sticking or falling apart, not burnt or shriveled, fragrant and golden—just looking at them makes your mouth water.

　　There are countless ways to cook fire-dried fish—whether pan-fried, stir-fried, steamed, or poached, they make a delicious dish. The fame of Pingjiang fire-dried fish also lies in its unique cooking styles. The most famous is perhaps sour-spicy fire-dried fish stewed with tofu. Heat a pan with cold oil, toss in a handful of fire-dried fish, stir briefly, then add half a pot of broth along with salt, ginger, soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and perilla leaves. You can use either green chilies or dried chilies, and add about half a pound of rustic fried tofu—the kind made from stone-ground soybeans, with thin skins, hollow insides, and a golden, oily hue. Bring it to a boil, then simmer over low heat. Oh, and the sour-spicy fire-dried fish stewed with tofu wouldn’t be complete without its sour ingredient. This can’t be replaced by ordinary vinegar. It must be made from sour yardlong beans and sour radishes—finely sliced and added—from the pickled jars kept by Pingjiang households. That alone, those few pickled vegetables scooped from the jar, will make your mouth water, let alone when combined with the fried tofu and fire-dried fish. (Pingjiang)