Dov and I together in Chengdu were just a little bit dangerous.
Remember, first of all, that when I arrived in Chengdu, my stomach was still a bit tricky. I was on the road to recovery, good health was in sight, but no amount of denial could mask the rumbles and pangs issuing from below. Dov, for his part, seemed not to believe that I really was sick. He told me to “walk off” one particularly nasty bout of cramps. You can walk off a pulled muscle. You can’t walk off an exploding gut.
Bear in mind also that Chengdu is the capital of the Sichuan province, home of one of the most famous Chinese cuisines. Sichuanese food is diverse, but its defining characteristic is the abundant use of fiery chili oil.
Now recall how much I like to eat, and how little able I am to resist the call of new food. If a market stand is selling something I haven’t seen before, I am constitutionally incapable of passing by without getting at least one sample, usually two. This may seem like simple adventurism or novelty-seeking behavior, but really it is dedication to an ethic. If someone out there thinks a dish is worth preparing and offering to the public, I am going to meet them halfway.
Finally, understand the positive feedback loop that results when two people with compatible stomachs find themselves with time on their hands in a city crammed full of restaurants. Frequently Dov and I would separately lead waiters on wild-eyed excursions, leaning bodily over other diners to point at food we wanted to try. We would then reconvene at our table wearing the expression of sleepwalkers awakened in mid-step, unsure of what we had just done, waiting anxiously for the train of dishes to arrive.
We did pretty well for ourselves with this method. The cold smoked duck was an obvious winner, as was the heaping plate of sliced duck liver. The short ribs, rolled in sesame seeds and bread crumbs and then deep fried, hold a special place in my heart. Specifically, the coronary artery, which is now permanently clogged. Twice-cooked pork with green onions is a Sichuanese classic, and it is even better when thick-cut bacon is substituted for the meat. The list goes on. Spicy eggplant; enormous bowls of steaming wontons; rice glass noodles in chili oil and vinegar; “bear’s paws” — pads of crisp fried tofu in a hot-sweet sauce; sizzling rice; spicy tripe sandwiches. The plates piled up.
Then there was the pig’s brain, as clear an example of decision-making gone awry as I can imagine. Dov and I were in a hotpot restaurant, once again leading waiters on a tour of the tables. Hotpot is not the wisest choice for an upset stomach, consisting as it does of a boiling cauldron of chili oil covered over with a scum of chili peppers and hot peppercorns. It is a truly infernal dish.
Dov and I arrived together at the pig’s brain, which sat raw, pink, and glistening on a bed of lettuce.
There is a percentage of the population, perhaps even a majority, that would not look upon a whole pig’s brain and think, “Pass the salt.” A few weeks ago, I might have even counted myself among that percentage, as my hunger for pig’s brain had never been put to the test. But in that hotpot restaurant, there was no hesitation.
We saved the pig’s brain for last, working our way first through dozens of other plates and a bottle of paint-stripping Chinese rice liquor. We went through several rounds of toasts with neighboring tables. A drunk Chinese cop tried to teach us kung fu. Finally, I neatly separated the hemispheres with a chopstick and dunked them into the pot.
The brain was delicious, tender and delicate like a flan. We ordered a second, but the restaurant was out.
