Initiation Into a Fiery Tradition

Tumultuous volcanic liquid bubbles close to eruption point, churning masses of swarthy peppercorns and scarlet chillies around in brisk, violent circles. Rows of raw meat and vegetables lie calmly, waiting for the imminent chaos, while scalding steam disappears above my head into the blanket of humidity hugging the air.

Chopsticks click impatiently. Cold bottles drip with condensation.

And then, it begins. All at once, everything is ceremonially plunged into the depths of the gurgling red sea; tender, salty beef mixing with lusciously crispy Chinese broccoli. Most of it doesn’t take long to cook and wooden fingers soon reach out to claim the contents of the pot.

Resurfacing a sliver of beer, I dip it into sesame oil to help mask the spiciness. But as the protective oil slides away, an intense inferno rages through my mouth, leaving behind a numbing trail of pins and needles. I realise very quickly though, that despite my scorching mouth and throbbing lips, I can’t wait to eat more.

“Gan bei!” Someone suddenly yells; the battle cry for everyone at the table to drink their glasses dry. Tsingtao is knocked back from shot glasses and peanut butter-flavoured milk is sucked eagerly through straws. Only vaguely calmed, my mouth continues to hum from the má là – 'numb spicy' – sensation of the hua jiao - 'flower pepper.'

All around me in this hot pot restaurant there is a noisy harmony of slurping, chomping, cackling and conversing. An ‘Aunt’ picks out a shitake mushroom for me while an ‘Uncle’ tells me to eat up before my ‘Brothers’ and ‘Sisters’ inhale everything. The table rumbles with laughter. I exchange warm smiles with my new family and friends as the feast continues.

Only moments later, naked plates are emptied of their contents and clutter what little space there is on our table. Used napkins swim in spilled puddles of oil and pools of molten lava. Tired chopsticks lie dishevelled and forgotten. The pot sits silently, its contents tepid and finally calm.