Taiwan Today

"To enjoy food and delight in colors is our nature."
        The Works of Mencius

"Food and drink and sex are mankind's major desires."
        The Book of Rites

"Chih kuo le mei you?" translates as "Have you eaten'?" and is one of the most common Chinese greetings, sug­gesting the great attention paid to dining in the Chinese view of life. It's been said that Westerners eat to live, while the Chinese live to eat.

The secondary reasons for eating, the pleasures of dining, are so many they can't be listed. One may say he only eats to keep alive; but another will think of satisfying less basic gastronomic cravings, or note that the dining "atmosphere, my friends, is de rigueur." And what of service? Oh, wouldn't we like to be served like the kings of old!

A purist ordering Chinese haute cui­sine will certainly demand that the shark's fins be stewed over a slow fire for at least 40 hours; that the camphor­-and-tea-smoked duck be toasted over chips of camphor wood, leaving it tastefully devoid of grease; and that certain fish be fried to a crisp brown, not a second overdone.

Master chef Peng Chang-kwai, 65, of Peng's Restaurants—Taipei, New York, Los Angeles, and Houston-looking back, deplores the fact that the demands of daily operations left him scarcely a chance to bring his full culinary excellence into play during a l2-year sojourn abroad. "It is not difficult to make money abroad, but it is rare indeed to meet an authentic gastronome," Peng declares. Now, from the vantage of the Chinese decor of his office at Peng's Res­taurant, Taipei, just opened last September, he is making up for lost time.

Chef Peng won renown as "the pace­-setter of Taiwan's Hunan-style cuisine" long before his fame spread overseas, for such specialties as minced pigeon in bamboo cup, stewed shark's fin, beggar's ham, Lord Wei beancurd, chicken a la viceroy, and many others. Since a majority of Taiwan's restaurants specialize in specific regional cuisines, but include favorites from across China on their menus, it is not unusual at all to find Peng's creations listed at local, non-Hunanese eateries.

Hunan Province, located in the heart of China, records a long history of praise as the "land of fish and rice." Its ever abundant food supply was a natural recipe incentive for the Hunanese people, who went on to develop a cuisine esteemed for variety and flavor. From hot peppered dishes that would make a Szechwan veteran's tongue tingle, to succulent sweet and sour creations, Hunan cuisine has it all. Steaming, however, is the favorite method for preparing Hunan's savory fare. And the province is also known for unique accessories-particularly, long chopsticks and huge platters—among other features of the area's culi­nary artforms.

Peng, slender in well-fitted tailor­-made suit and with hair neatly styled, hardly fits the image of a master chef. Only the pink-tinted menus piled on his desk, awaiting his last check, reveal his alimentary involvement. "I have long stayed out of the kitchen," he admitted; "my assistants now carry the ball."

Peng Chang-kwai was born as the 13th son of a poor family of Changsha, Hunan, and was among only three to sur­vive to help his aged parents with the burden of making a living. After graduat­ing from primary school, l2-year-old Peng was sent to the city of Nanking to become a helper on the kitchen staff of the famous master chef Tsao Ching-chen. Tsao was in the service of Tan Yen-kai, the first Premier of the new Chinese republic, before the constitutional government was ordained in 1948. Chef Tsao was so prestigious a practitioner of the culinary arts, that he lent gastronomic luster to the name of his employer. The well-known term Tan chu (the cook for Tan), common in contemporary Chi­nese cooking literature, refers to chef Tsao.

"In the beginning, I was merely an errand boy for Master Tsao. But after a couple of years, Master Tsao, seeing I was diligent and clever, formally received me as his fourth apprentice," Peng recalled.

Although Tsao never formally taught his apprentices how to cook, the constant big and small-scale banquets at Premier Tan's official residence gave them ample opportunity to observe the master chef's superb preparations. "For Tan's menu, there were two peerless dishes not to be found elsewhere," Peng revealed. "One was stewed shark's fin, the other, Lord Wei beancurd."

Premier Tan himself was an expert on fine shark's fin. Top quality breast fins were first reinforced with thin, flat-slips of bamboo, then stewed over a slow fire for 40 hours with such savory ingre­dients as abalone, scallops, diced chicken and ham, and fine mushrooms from Changchiakou (a city in Chahar Province). When the fins were al dente, all the extra ingredients would be discarded. The final delicacy always satisfies the most demanding gourmet.

For Lord Wei beancurd, curd brought from the market is first sieved to separate out the filmy texture. The puree is then resteamed to return the curd to its original form-only now it will be more tender and its fragrance delicate. The new curd is then stewed in a chicken soup broth until it is full of beehive-like holes. Because the holes have caught the chicken broth, the Lord Wei curd is also particularly savory cooked with other ingredients.

In Tan's kitchen, Peng beheld the preparation of many special delicacies­—bear's paw, sugared carp, deep-boiled crane with ginseng. But later, in the wake of Tan's death, Master Tsao retired to his hometown in Changhsa, there to open, with the zealous assistance of his apprentices, the famous Chien Le Yuan Restaurant. Since Tsao was aging, Peng was given more and more chances to per­form in the kitchen. And although Chien Le Yuan's menu featured the Tan chu delicacies, it gradually acquired ever deeper tints of regional color. During this period, Peng became intimately familiar with the real Hunan-style cuisine, and the knowhow to run a restaurant.

Following the Nationalists to Taiwan in 1949, Peng was the only apprentice of master chef Tsao to reach the island. Investors, aware of his culinary excellence, swarmed to join him in the restau­rant business-among them, such well known figures as Hwa Hsin, Hwa Hsien, Tien Chang Lou, and Yu Lou Tung.

Tang Lu-sun, Taiwan's top connoiseur-commentator on Chinese cooking, spoke for many when he hailed Peng's achievement: "Peng's success does not merely garnish a Tan chu signboard. For decades, Peng has been creating new, inexpensive delicacies, using local products, especially in the early fifties when Taiwan lacked both materials and busi­ness tycoons."

Fresh-cut bamboo's tender fragrance inspired his first gourmet specialty. When he was still a child, he heard much said about the bamboo being particularly conducive to the digestion of elderly people. Since Taiwan naturally abounds in bamboo, it was a handy ingredient. Diced chicken in bamboo cup has since become one of Peng's signboard special­ ties. As time went by, and people demanded greater variety on the menu, pigeon and bamboo, instead of chicken, became the favorite dish.

Peng also created the muskmelon cup. In 1953 when ROC Navy Commander­ in-Chief Liang Shu-chiao was acting as host for visiting Admiral Radford, commander of the U.S. Seventh Fleet, Liang asked Peng to draw up a four-day menu, different for each day. Peng went to the market, and noting a display of fresh, ap­petizing muskmelons, suddenly theo­rized: "Why not replace the bamboo cup with muskmelon'?" His initial experi­ment was unexpectedly excellent­—another specialty for Peng's menu.

Many other menu dishes were also created by chance. For instance, Peng family bean curd. A bout 17 years ago, one afternoon, being late for the usual staff lunch at the Hwa Hsin Restaurant, Peng asked the cook to sautee his beancurd first, then stir-fry it with peppers, garlic, and salted-cured soybeans—a very common cooking method in his home­town. But to everyone's surprise, its strong flavor attracted others, and from the second day on, boss Peng's beancurd became the number one money maker for Hwa Hsin.

Honey-steamed Hunan ham, an indispensable delicacy for most Taiwan wedding feasts, illustrates Peng's critical care with a recipe. "The cutting plays a significant role in this dish. The sliced ham must be 70 percent lean and 30 percent fat," Peng stressed, and continued: "In the olden days, scallops were usually used as a food flavoring accessory in the steaming. However, the lotus nut is the current alternative to lower the cost." As for the honey sauce, the proper percent­ age is 30 percent honey and 70 percent rock sugar. "Don't spare the honey sauce, and don't steam overtime. Failure in either consideration will result in a change in taste."

Critic Tang Lu-sun authoritatively commented: "At first glance, some of Peng's creations may seem to be accom­plished by accident. But a careful review reveals that they all originated from Tan chu's incomparable culinary tact—cook­ing a dish of coherent ingredients until it is extremely tender."

"Quality materials, proper cooking time, and appropriate seasoning pave the way to a successful dish," states Peng, il­lustrating fundamental principles applicable to all Chinese cooking.

In response to our special request, Peng allowed us to interrupt his kitchen for the purpose of taking photos. Amid the heat, clatter, and pungent odors, Chou Jih-yang, restaurant manager and Peng's main partner, holds sway like a Taoist king of old-without running around and issuing orders, he nevertheless closely superintends the entire oper­ation with a careful eye. At first glance, the huge kitchen is a chaos-a dozen cooks chopping, stirring, and moving giant pans on and off burners through which orange names flare. A longer look, however, reveals that every action fits into a fixed pattern, every dish being prepared according to a hierarchical and predetermined order.

Unlike some Western foods, Chinese dishes are not prepared in advance. Although meat, fish, and vegetables can, of course, be cleaned and sliced before­ hand, and although an entire table of pre­pared fresh spices and sauces stands ready near the burners, the actual prepa­ration of most dishes must be done on order.

When an order is delivered to an apprentice, one of Peng's current crop of 30-odd students, he starts his work at a long, rectangular table, where he begins to layout the basic ingredients. He passes on his part of the collection to another apprentice, who completes the task before passing them to the first of the cooks, at the far end of the table. After the first stage of cooking is completed, the dish is passed along a line of cooks until, at the very last burner, it reaches the master chef himself. The master chef puts on the finishing touches and passes the cooked dish on to an apprentice at the beginning of the circle, who puts it on the serving plate.

Watching these energetic, expe­rienced cooks ply their trade is like seeing the one-armed swordsman (a Chi­nese movie hero) repulse numerous ad­versaries simultaneously—they always seem to be doing at least three things at the same time. The aspiring Chinese chef should bear in mind that all ingre­dients must be pre-measured, because the actual cooking time is very short and demands the use of both hands.

Peng's current operation is divided into cooking, cutting, steaming, snacks, seafood, and pan teh li (a special term for washing and miscellaneous chores) divisions.

It was 11:30 in the morning, and all staff, mostly young men dressed in white, were busy preparing to face the coming lunch hour challenge. A noisy voice issuing from a long, giant-sized ventilator right above their heads intensified the already too restive ambience. Manager Chou remarked: "In dinner peak times or for large-scale wedding feasts, the whole kitchen is bustling and hustling, like a machine running at full speed."

I talked to some of the staff about their duties and futures. Chou Cheng-yi, a 17-year-old green hand, was con­centrating on transferring well-cut dried meat (for a famous Hunan Chinese New Year dish) into a round bowl for steam­ing. "I start learning with this cutting practice; at present I am too young to know any of my future plans," he shrugged. An elderly cook, busy fixing shark's fins, noted without emotion, "This is my job, and I am used to it." Chou Chu, a 26-year-old native of Kiang-su and already the number-three assis­tant cook in this kitchen, was more enthusiastic: "I have worked on this line for five years. I intend to open my own eatery when I complete my training and find financial backers."

Peng, speaking from a vantage of 50-odd years of expertise, ended the interview with a bit of philosophy: "Eating properly is an art, and cooking is an end­less pursuit of excellence. Good eyesight, excellent memory, plus experience-that is the key to success. It is hard to say how many years are required to become a master chef; all depends on the student's wisdom and learning desires. A chef must learn as much as he possibly can, because the more he knows, the greater the possibility his accomplishment will have a satisfactory outcome."