Forbidden City

After that rant out of nowhere my seemingly frayed nerve were calmed by a verrrry soothing massage and today was the adventure of the subway (they definitely have more junta than we do!!) which turned out to be very easy to negotiate (apart from dealing with the seething masses that just keep pouring into the compartment despite being filled to capacity, utterly oblivious to those wanting to get off the train. I get out at Tiananmen Square (East) and am a tad disappointed at how benign it looks. A bit silly to expect student protesters being mowed down by tanks, but aside from being massive (but then, Beijing is a MASSIVE city), there’s little to commend itself to the tourist. The Forbidden City on the other hand…. It takes me quite a while to realize, that it’s not free entrance, but rather I’m only crossing the gates preceding the Forbidden City from Tiananmen Square. It’s full of street vendors hawking their wares and I get snared by a young girl, an artist who insists she wants foreigners to see her work and won’t let me go. I have no need or desire for yet another Chinese painting, but sap that I am, am unable to walk away from the exhibition without a plastic bag holding one of her paintings. She’s from the Hunan province (and prefers it there) and is in Beijing for a month for this exhibition and desperately wants to show other people in other parts of the world her works. The walls remind me of offerings outside the Met in NY and Chinatown there. All originals – so much talent, but so few that make it really big. Like everything else, art is an industry as well. I loiter around the front courtyards taking in the crowds and the festive ambiance breaking into hapless giggles at the sight of combat wear, gun toting toy soldiers crawling on their forearms and knees with a Chinese flag merrily stashed between their weapon arm. The dolls are about 8-10 inches long, and advance in a not very stealthy but entirely convincing crawl brandishing their weapons, ready to take down any dissident tourist. I’m spellbound and the lady tries her best to sell me a regiment. I’m severely tempted, but six years in London and random Germanic associations make me question the wisdom of the toy even as I catalogue nieces /nephews and godchildren (and some contemporaries) to pander to. Sadly, my cash position is perilous and I decide to pay for the entrance ticket instead. My progress is poor and this time, I’m captivated by the sight of little plastic bags, well and truly sealed that seemed to have little fishies in them. My investigative peer reveals that they are not ornamental plastic fish as I thought, but real live ones, seemingly hermetically sealed with some dots of stuff in these plastic pouches with different coloured liquid. How strange. Apparently, these are fighter fish, and one is the best number to keep the harmony. Wonder what mating season looks like! Luckily, no other stall distracts me and I manage to acquire entry through the gates into what was once the Imperial capital of the Qing and Ming dynasties. A city within a city. I feel like I’ve landed on the sets of Shanghai Noon and almost expect to have Jackie Chan leaping out with great enthusiasm. Instead, I try a few fancy maneuvers so as not to trample on any stray children in my line of trajectory. There is always something magical about walking on the same roads and past the same things that a civilization did hundreds of years ago and this is no different. Trying to imagine what life would have been like in the royal confines. The Imperial gardens are ornamental and seem somehow small compared to what one expects of royalty. The consorts chambers have furniture displayed and for some reason this attracts all the shutterbugs. The streets are punctured by large copper vats that were used to firefight – a rather common phenomenon given how carefully organised this was, but still not good enough to prevent destruction through fire in the days of yore. It’s another beautiful day, and the sun glitters on the rooftops, that were yellow when I came in, but now gleam like they are plated with gold leaf, reflecting the sunlight like water. Time goes by quicker than expected (my earlier loitering could have some impact on this), and I find myself rushing back down the other side, before realizing that I’d manage to lose myself in the city and re-orienting myself in the right direction. Team dinner that can’t wait, so I had to forgo the not so little swarming, belly crawling army. Dinner is Sichuan and spicy and while they courteously offer me the menu, I abdicate (but not before I do a quick reconnaissance of the pictures and my fancy is piqued by cold donkey meat and my heart melts at the sight of seahorses in their miniature perfection on the menu) and only express my ethical aversion to anything shark fin related. Duly noted, and the food comes flying in…. the first dish to arrive is what looks like rolled green leaves with a peanutty dipping sauce. It’s crunchy, and in itself, not very flavourful, but with the sauce, turns into a crisp, refreshing bite. Soon, the table is laden - original Kung Pao chicken, which is completely different, spicy but with a compellingly fragrant flavor, even spicier tofu (I fail to understand why no one else makes tofu like this – it’s silky, delicate and most pleasing to the palate unlike your average tofu which I will avoid like the plague) that takes all of my skills to confine myself to the tofu without being annihilated by the deadly sauce. Then, the waitress brings a large glass bowl with brown liquid. I’m thinking this looks like rather a bland stock and then to my shock, she ladles in some strips of raw meat and it bubbles ferociously! That is a bowl of hot oil! The meat is dipped in taken out and then rest of the vegetables. But contrary to my expectations, and unlike a fondue, they then put everything back in that huge bowl of oil, which along with your edibles has a bunch of hot stones that keep the dish hot…. Its Chinese name is a far more elegant rendition of flowing river with boiling beef. I’m a tad appalled at having to fish my food out of a vat of oil, but gamely do so and it’s absolutely delicious! The beef, mushroom and sundry other veggies are done perfectly and bursting with flavor. While I’m distracted by this, more food has arrived at the table, rice, chicken broth soup with unnamed bits of what I would guess to be interiors of some animal (specked and honeycombed like the inside of an intestine methinks) that are supple and deliciously crunchy and a sweet sago something or the other soupy endeavour (which I would be more than happy to sacrifice). As we forage through our meal, the ladle brings up more stones than meat and veg and I’m laughingly appalled once again to be eating straight out of the boiling oil. “It’s just like French Fries”, Rayman consoles me, “Just manual draining”. Technically speaking, the boy is right, but now I start to wonder what they do with the oil once we’re through with it and a lively debate ensues. One presumes that an establishment of this magnitude tosses it but I insist that this is what has been used to cook the rest of our meal. Yep, I am a very popular boss (and this is before I pick up the tab!)