Pickled cabbage with plain boiled pork

Pickled cabbage with plain boiled pork

　　Pickled cabbage with plain boiled pork

　　In the homes of northeastern Chinese, there are two indispensable items: a pickled cabbage vat and the large stone used to press the cabbage. This is true for both poor families and wealthy households. Back in the day, the residence of warlord Zhang Zuolin had seven or eight such pickled cabbage vats, yet they still often ran out. Zhang Zuolin’s son—also the younger brother of Zhang Xueliang, Major General Zhang Xuesi, who later served as the Chief of Staff of the People's Liberation Army Navy—during the Cultural Revolution, …, and in his final moments, the one thing he longed most to eat was pickled cabbage.

　　Pickled cabbage has an affinity with the Chinese people; you can find it everywhere from south to north. Take Sichuan’s famous Pickled Cabbage Fish—the pickled cabbage used there is one variety. It’s a yellowish-green type, made from leaf mustard (scientific name: Brassica juncea var. multiceps), a biennial plant in the Brassicaceae family. To northeasterners, it seems distant, unfamiliar, mysterious, rare, and thus a delicacy best enjoyed at restaurants. I boldly call it: Southern-style pickled cabbage.

　　Northeastern pickled cabbage, as the counterpart to its southern sibling, naturally becomes a type of northern pickled cabbage. Its main ingredient is the humble Chinese cabbage, familiar to locals. In late autumn to early winter, it’s salted and packed into vats with water. A heavy stone is placed on top of the cabbage to press it down, allowing it to slowly compact and ferment in the cold environment. After twenty to thirty days, it’s ready. When the temperature drops and you dig out the cabbage through a layer of ice with frozen red hands, shivering as you step into the warm house, the first whiff of that pale yellowish-white vegetable emits a cool, uniquely fragrant aroma—it’s authentic, invigorating, just the right taste.

　　The northeast is just too cold. Back in the day, without greenhouses for off-season crops, someone—perhaps a commoner or someone who brought the idea from inland China—invented pickled cabbage to help people get through the harsh winter. It was likely devised by ordinary folks. Had it been the brainchild of a celebrity like Su Shi, people wouldn’t forget the kindness or hog the credit—dishes would have been named “Su Dongpo Pickled Cabbage” or “Zuo Zongtang Pickled Cabbage.” Most good things in this world come from unsung, ordinary people, either invented independently or improved upon by many—each adding a splash of effort. These treasures are celebrated by the public, yet eventually taken for granted.

　　Although common, northeastern pickled cabbage has a strong personality—it’s quite stubborn and doesn’t like to mix with other vegetables. Have you ever seen delicate greens like spinach, leeks, or cucumbers sharing a pot with pickled cabbage?

　　There’s a reason for pickled cabbage’s stubbornness. Amidst ice and snow, where did all the others hide? Leaving only me, standing my ground alone.

　　Of course, in the cellar during the frigid season up north, there are a few other staple winter foods, like potatoes and Chinese cabbage. Potatoes are known for being mild-mannered and cooperative, but even so—what happens? There’s a northeastern saying: “Stewing potatoes with pickled cabbage—stiff as ever,” meaning the potatoes lose their usual tenderness under the influence of the stubborn pickled cabbage, unable to stay soft.

　　Even when paired with its botanical relative—cabbage—the stubborn one refuses to team up. Have you ever heard of a dish combining pickled cabbage and fresh cabbage? Old cadres vs. new cadres fighting? Kids not wanting to play with their parents? If you knew it’d end this way, why start together?

　　So who gets along well with pickled cabbage? It’s the less refined, rarely poetic meats. When northeastern aunties cook pickled cabbage, they often sigh, “This stuff just loves oil.” No wonder—coming from humble roots, it deserves a bit more fat and calories. And the meat? Strangely enough, once it meets pickled cabbage, it sheds its greasiness, loses its heaviness, and gains fragrance—like a flashy woman washing off her makeup to return to her natural beauty.

　　Pickled cabbage is not only picky about its companions but also about how it’s cooked. You can’t pan-fry it, deep-fry it, sauté it, roast it, beat it, or scold it. Typically, northeasterners prepare it in four ways: 1) stewed, 2) stir-fried, 3) wrapped in dumplings, 4) eaten raw.

　　Eating it raw is the most basic way pickled cabbage serves the people of the northeast. A mother washes pickled cabbage in a clay basin. Seeing her child staring hungrily, she splits off the tougher outer leaves to reveal the tender heart of the cabbage—and hands it over. The child cradles it in small hands, runs out into the cold wind, sliding on the ice while happily munching away. The child doesn’t know what ice cream is; the heart of the pickled cabbage is their ice cream. Even the father watches enviously, cuts off a piece for himself at the kang table, dips it in sauce, and enjoys it with alcohol.

　　The highest and most classic form of pickled cabbage is when it’s stewed—stewed with meat, in a hotpot or regular pot. Commonly called pickled cabbage with plain boiled pork or pickled cabbage hotpot, and more elegantly termed “poached pot” or “poached plain pork.” “Poached” (氽)—just by looking at the character, you know it means “to submerge in water,” so it must be served in broth, often a generous amount, taking inspiration from the “Kingdom of Tonga.” Finishing the broth in just a few gulps? That’s not boldness. “Poached” may often be mistakenly written as “Chuan” (川) on restaurant menus or chalkboards. So what if it’s “Chuan”? It’s not a postgraduate exam. Plus, “Chuan” means big water, which fits the soup-heavy principle. Its shape also resembles three slices of plain pork lying sideways—surprisingly accurate.

　　Plain pork—allow me to borrow the technical tone of a cooking manual—is pork belly with a balanced fat-to-lean ratio and skin on, simmered in cold water until about 60–70% cooked, then sliced and set aside.

　　Northeasterners usually cook with soy sauce, but not in this case. As a result, the pork slices are pure white and clean—hence the name “plain pork.”

　　Plain pork has a long history in the northeast. Manchu emperors, during sacrificial rites, loved using plain pork as an offering. After the ceremony, they would grant it to favored ministers for immediate consumption. Though imperial favor was grand, the snow-white “royal meat” wasn’t even seasoned with a hint of salt—forget soy sauce—leaving officials lamenting at each ceremony. The clever—or “unscrupulous”—ones would bribe the eunuch serving the meat, secretly pinching a bit of salt in their sleeves as a quick fix. If the emperor had reformed the ritual to stew the plain pork with a big pot of pickled cabbage, perhaps the ministers’ integrity would have reached new heights.

　　The pickled cabbage used in poached plain pork mainly consists of the cabbage core. Well-fermented pickled cabbage cores are already thin, but the skilled housewives of the northeast aren’t satisfied—they slice it further along the grain to create three or more layers, nearly transparent, thinner than raw cabbage. Then it’s shredded into very fine strips, and stewed with the pork, Sichuan peppercorns, star anise, dried shrimp, and more. Once cooked, it’s topped with condiments like chive flower sauce, fermented tofu, minced garlic, and eaten hot. Immediately, you feel refreshed all over, in an uplifted mood—ah, how wonderful it is to be northeastern.

　　If you have the means, adding blood sausage, glass noodles, frozen crab, or oysters will take it to the next level of happiness.