Tongguan Roujiamo

Tongguan Roujiamo

　　Roujiamo from Tongguan is no stranger to anyone. The fame of Tongguan Roujiamo has long spread far and wide, becoming a beloved dish among the Chinese people and thus turning into a culinary emblem of Tongguan. In 2011, the craft of making Tongguan Roujiamo was even included in the Shaanxi Provincial Intangible Cultural Heritage List. Yet, if you explore the history of roujiamo, it’s not hard to see that within this palm-sized sandwich lies a great deal of adaptation and perseverance.

　　On Crescent Moon Spring Town, the boss’s modification of the meat filling is one such adaptation, and such changes have occurred many times over the past thousand years. Let’s start from the beginning.

　　In Tongguan, there is a widely circulated story about roujiamo and Emperor Li Shimin.

　　Legend has it that in the early Tang Dynasty, Prince Qin Li Shimin, while passing through Tongguan, tried Tongguan Roujiamo and couldn’t stop praising it: “Marvelous, marvelous, I had no idea such a delicious food existed in this world.” From then on, Tongguan Roujiamo became famous across the land. Perhaps this was the first instance of adaptation.

　　You see, the flatbread wasn’t originally an invention of the ancient Han Chinese. Before the Qin and Han dynasties, Han people typically ate “soup cakes” or “steamed cakes” at meals, which were completely different from today’s flatbreads—one resembled modern-day noodles in broth, the other similar to today’s pancakes. Later, around the Han Dynasty, it was likely Zhang Qian or Ban Chao who, through their connections with the Western Regions, brought back what might be considered the precursor to flatbread—the “Hu Bing,” or what we now call “naan.” This Hu Bing reached its peak popularity during the Tang Dynasty.

　　Perhaps, at that time, Li Shimin, who was campaigning across the land, happened to tuck some cooked meat inside the Hu Bing he was carrying, thus giving rise to the timeless tale of Tongguan Roujiamo.

　　Moving forward, as dietary habits continued to develop and evolve, many other foods beloved by the common people emerged later on, such as steamed buns and baozi. Naturally, the bread used in roujiamo also changed accordingly. The shift from Hu Bing to steamed buns might represent the second adaptation of Tongguan Roujiamo. No one knows exactly when this change began, but it is certain that by the Kangxi period of the Qing Dynasty, the bread used in Tongguan Roujiamo was still a steamed bun.

　　The development of the social economy can drive change, and the faster the economy grows, the quicker things tend to evolve. Tongguan Roujiamo is no exception.

　　By the early 20th century, another change took place—steamed buns were replaced by ox-tongue-shaped flatbread. Yet, just a few years later, after the founding of the People’s Republic of China, the bread transformed into the round, layered flatbread we see today.

　　To this day, Tongguan Roujiamo continues to evolve, though these changes are relatively minor. For instance, the shop at Crescent Moon Spring Town enhances the flavor of the meat with green peppers—a change like this is likely one of many. No matter how it changes, Tongguan Roujiamo always adapts to local conditions and caters to people’s ever-changing tastes.

　　Where there is adaptation, there is also perseverance—and this perseverance is not so much about the technique, but more about a sense of sentiment.

　　For the people of Tongguan, Tongguan Roujiamo is a source of pride. In Tongguan, people more commonly refer to roujiamo as “meat bun,” and eating a meat bun feels more like an honor, a blessing, or a sense of fulfillment and pride. It goes far beyond the concept of mere sustenance, embodying even a kind of simple and unadorned emotion.

　　Why is that? A friend from Tongguan told us it’s because the meat bun carries so many stories.

　　The friend said that in the past, in Tongguan, no matter who you asked, mentioning the meat bun would bring a look of drooling anticipation, as if talking about some rare delicacy in the world. Even now, when living conditions have improved, this remains true. Especially in earlier days, it wasn’t uncommon for people in heated arguments to use the meat bun as a wager. If one side lost, the winner, often under peer “pressure,” would demand that the loser chip in to buy meat buns for everyone to share. And just like that, those who were red in the face from arguing moments before would reconcile over a few meat buns. So, in Tongguan’s local tales, it’s common to hear about someone who won a bet and ended up eating three or five meat buns—when usually, that amount would be several times their regular meal portion.

　　Beyond using meat buns as wagers, there are, of course, many other stories. Staff at the Tongguan County Cultural Center shared two such tales with us.

　　The first story goes back several decades, when a young farmer took his son on a train to seek medical treatment elsewhere. On the train, they met a government official who was receiving a salary from public funds. Knowing the journey would be long, the official had bought a few meat buns before boarding to eat along the way. As he ate, the farmer’s son kept staring at him, visibly salivating. So, the official offered the boy a meat bun. The farmer quickly declined. It wasn’t that the farmer didn’t want to eat or couldn’t afford it—back then, a meat bun cost only two mao—but the farmer knew the dozens of yuan in his pocket were meant for his son’s medical treatment, and he couldn’t afford to spend even a penny more. He could only ask his son to endure it and wait until after the treatment to go home and eat. Later, when the son recovered and grew up, every time he mentioned meat buns, he would remember this incident and subconsciously buy a couple extra to bring back for his father.

　　The second story involves the staff member at the cultural center himself. He recounted that in his childhood, his family wasn’t well off, so whenever his grandmother bought a meat bun from the market, she would cut it into four pieces—one for his elder brother, one for his elder sister, one for himself, and one for grandma. Given that the bun was already just a palm-sized portion, cutting it into four made each piece even smaller. As a result, in his memory, meat buns were something he could never get enough of. Yet, by the time he was earning enough money to buy as many as he wanted, his grandmother had already passed away...

　　Nowadays, as living standards in Tongguan have gradually improved and people are no longer worried about basic necessities, the meat bun remains something close to the hearts of Tongguan residents. Although the price of meat buns in the market has risen to over five yuan, it’s still common to see young people from remote rural villages come into the city specially to buy meat buns for their elders.

　　Perhaps, this is the sentiment of the people of Tongguan. No matter how the craft of Tongguan Roujiamo may adapt, for Tongguan locals, the meat bun is simply the taste of Tongguan.