A Moveable Feast

Rose water and burnt animal flesh permeate the market air outside the mosque in downtown Xi’an. Boomboxes rather than muezzins provide the soundtrack. I want to erase the acrid film of stale airline food that still lingers on my tongue.

I walk through outdoor aisles piled high with Communist-red jujube and florescent green preserved kiwis. Six salted quail eggs fried onto a stick in tiny round molds are advertised in Mandarin, Arabic, and English. The ten-foot stacks of steamed dumpling baskets flanking the entrance of a small canteen might have tumbled down, except I eat them first.

Throughout the city a certain aroma almost masks the stench of half-frozen untreated sewage that seems perpetually around the corner. Wanting to taste the unnamed spices, I buy what look like apple peels but are revealed at first bite to be thick, chewy noodles. Something I cannot smell leaves my tongue numb. The rest is cumin, coriander, star anise, cardamom, and white pepper.

A few streets later, the princes of the Muslim quarter cook my main course. They hold court behind a slender rectangular grill as their neighbors gather to banter. The lean lamb kebabs are cheaper than those of highly prized fat. Dusted with that ubiquitous, pungent blend, painted with oils and juices, my dinner hangs sizzling over coals. The princes politely ignore their blonde, blue-eyed customer to watch the meat.

Foreign is familiar for these Chinese men with narrow brown faces and round eyes. Appearances belie the many centuries that have passed since their fathers travelled across the Silk Road. The legacy of these successful merchants has lived on in how the ancient ghetto has transformed into enviable real estate.

I crunch into the tender hunks as the grease drips onto my fingerless gloves, turning the corner to discover sesame seed bagels baked in an ancient clay dome. When people ask what real Chinese food is like, I will tell them about this first meal in the heart of the old Chinese empire.